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THE    [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


SIELANKA, 
AND   OTHER   STORIES. 


THE    WORKS    OF 

HENRYK    SIENKIEWICZ. 

AUTHORIZED  UNABRIDGED  TRANSLATIONS  BY 
JEREMIAH  CURTIN. 

LIBRARY    EDITION. 


Historical  &omanceg. 

Poland,   Turkey,   Russia,  and  Sweden, 

WITH  FIRE  AND  SWORD,    i  vol. 
THE  DELUGE.    2  vols. 
PAN  MICHAEL,    i  vol. 

Rome  in  the  time  of  Nero. 
"Quo  VADIS."    i  vol. 

hotels  of  iflfltotoern  $ola»o. 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  SOIL,    i  vol. 
WITHOUT  DOGMA.     (Translated  by  Iza  Young.) 

Sijort  Stories. 

MANIA,  and  Other  Stories,    i  vol. 
SIELANKA,  A  FOREST  PICTURE,  and  Other  Stories, 
i  vol.  

ON  THE  BRIGHT  SHORE,    i  vol. 
LET  Us  FOLLOW  HIM.    i  vol. 
%*  The  above  two  are  also  included  in  the  volume 
entitled  "  Hania." 

YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN,  and  Other  Stories,    i  vol. 
LILLIAN  MORRIS,  and  Other  Stories,    i  vol. 

*#*  The  tales  and  sketches  included  in  these  two 
volumes  are  now  reprinted  with  others  by  Sienkie- 
wicz  in  the  volume  entitled  "  Sielanka,  a  Forest 
Picture,  and  Other  Stories." 


BARTEK,   THE  VICTOR. 
Photogravured  after  a  drawing  by  J.  Rosen. 

SIELANKA,  Frontispiece. 


SIELANKA: 

a  JForest  Picture, 
AND    OTHER    STORIES. 


BY 
HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ, 

AUTHOR  OF  "QUO  VADI8,"  "  WITH  FIRE  AND  SWORD,' 
"THE  DELUGE,"  "PAN  MICHAEL,"  ETC. 


AUTHORIZED    UNABRIDGED    TRANSLATION 
FROM    THE   POLISH 

BY 

JEREMIAH   CURTIN. 


BOSTON: 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

1899. 


Copyright,  1893,  1894, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  1898, 
BY  JEREMIAH   CITRTIN. 


All  rights  reserved. 


SSntorrsttg  $)rt*0: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


Library 

P< 

7/52 

/  2?2 
CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SIELANKA.     A  FOREST  PICTURE 3 

FOR  BREAD 25 

ORSO Ill 

WHOSE  FAULT? 139 

THE  DECISION  OF  ZEUS 159 

ON  A  SINGLE  CARD 175 

YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN 255 

BARTEK  THE  VICTOR 267 

ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 339 

FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN 417 

THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL 441 

YAMYOL.     A  VILLAGE  SKETCH 463 

THE  BULL-FIGHT.     A  REMINISCENCE  OF  SPAIN      .     .     .  477 

SACHEM 505 

A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS 519 

A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS 541 

ZOLA  ("DOCTOR  PASCAL") 571 


688685 


INTRODUCTORY. 

HPHE  present  volume  and  "  Hania,"  which  pre- 
ceded  it,  contain  all  the  stories  in  Sienkie- 
wicz's  collected  works.  Of  seventeen  titles  in  the 
contents  of  this  volume,  nine,  beginning  with 
"  Yanko  the  Musician,"  and  ending  with  "  A  Com- 
edy of  Errors,"  belong  to  stories  which  have  ap- 
peared in  the  two  small  volumes,  "  Yanko  the 
Musician"  and  "Lillian  Morris." 

It  will  not  detract  from  the  interest  of  that 
pathetic  and  beautiful  story,  "  The  Lighthouse 
Keeper  of  Aspinwall,"  to  state  that  it  is  founded 
on  fact. 

The  experiences  of  Bartek  the  Victor  and  the 
Tutor  of  Poznan  touch  German  traits  keenly. 
On  a  broader  field,  and  in  detail,  German  charac- 
ter will  be  exhibited  in  "  The  Knights  of  the 
Cross,"  a  work  of  intense  and  deep  interest  which 
Sienkiewicz  is  writing  at  present.  In  this  work 
the  author  shows  us  Poland  just  as  she  is  emerging 
from  desperate  peril  to  become  a  strong  Common- 


vi  INTRODUCTORY. 

wealth ;  lie  shows  us  also  the  Knights  of  the 
Cross,  the  most  effective  German  power  of  that 
period,  a  power  which  was  striving  to  master  all 
Eastern  Europe  and  subject  the  Slav  race  wher- 
ever resident ;  finally  he  shows  that  same  German 
power  cast  down  by  the  Slavs  at  Tannenberg,  cast 
down  not  to  rise  in  its  old  form  at  any  time. 

JEREMIAH   CURTIN. 

BRISTOL,  VERMONT,  U.  S.  A. 


SIELAKKA. 

A  FOREST  PICTURE. 


SIELANKA. 

A   FOREST  PICTURE. 

ON  a  broad  plain,  in  a  deep  forest,  stood  the  cottage  of 
the  forester  Stepan.  The  cottage  was  thatched 
with  straw,  and  built  of  round  logs,  the  spaces  between 
which  were  stuffed  with  moss.  At  the  side  of  the  cot- 
tage were  two  outbuildings,  in  front  of  it  a  piece  of 
inclosed  field  and  a  well  with  a  sweep ;  the  well,  fallen  in 
and  sloping,  held  water  covered  with  duck  plant. 

Before  the  windows  grew  sunflowers  and  wild  holly- 
hocks, tall,  slender,  and  covered  with  blossoms,  as  if  with 
a  swarm  of  butterflies ;  among  the  sunflowers  peeped  out 
the  red  heads  of  poppies ;  around  the  hollyhocks  twined 
red  and  white  sweet  peas  and  morning-glories ;  close  to 
the  ground  grew  nasturtiums,  yellow  crocuses,  marigolds, 
golden  primroses,  and  asters,  pale,  because  deadened  and 
concealed  from  sunlight  by  the  grayish  leaves  of  the  sun- 
flowers, and  by  hollyhocks. 

In  the  enclosure,  on  both  sides  of  the  path  leading  to 
the  house,  vegetables  had  been  planted :  carrots,  beets, 
and  cabbages ;  farther  on,  in  separate  fields,  with  every 
breath  of  wind  moved  waves  of  blue  flax  blossoms ;  far- 
ther was  the  dark  green  of  potato  leaves ;  and  on  the 
rest  of  the  broad  plain  a  fleece  of  grain  changed  now 
into  a  lighter,  now  into  a  darker  color  up  to  the  edges  of 
a  lake  which  washed  the  plain  on  one  side. 

There  were  not  many  trees  near  the  cottage,  —  a  few 
cherry-trees  with  dark,  glittering  leaves,  and  one  birch 


4  SIELANKA. 

with  long,  slender  branches,  which  stood  so  near  the  cot- 
tage that  every  breeze  cast  its  green  tress  on  the  sunken 
moss-covered  straw  roof ;  a  stronger  wind  bent  the  birch 
toward  the  wall,  and  when  all  the  branches  and  all  the 
waves  of  leaves  touched  the  roof;  one  might  think  that 
the  birch  loved  the  cottage  and  was  seizing  it  in  its  arms. 

This  birch  was  full  of  sparrows,  and  the  sound  of  its 
branches  was  mingled  with  the  twittering  and  noisy 
uproar  of  the  birds.  Doves  busied  themselves  at  the 
gable,  and  that  place  was  full  of  their  talk,  their  cooing 
and  enticing,  as  it  were  with  requests  and  questions,  as 
happens  usually  among  doves,  a  wonderfully  noisy  and 
talkative  people. 

At  times  some  unknown  alarm  frightened  them,  then 
around  the  cottage  rose  the  sound  of  wings ;  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  whirl  of  flying,  and  with  a  multitude  of 
white  birds.  We  have  heard  the  disturbance,  the  tumult, 
and  the  flapping  of  their  strong  tail-feathers.  A  whole 
flock  has  flown  out  on  a  sudden,  and  in  rings  and  circles 
it  wheels,  draws  near,  flies  off  and  separates  in  the  blue ; 
now  it  is  glittering  with  white  feathers  under  the  sun ; 
now  it  is  hanging  over  the  cottage,  hesitating,  fluttering 
in  the  air,  and  at  last  falls,  like  a  cloud  of  snowflakes,  on 
the  gray  straw  roof  of  the  cottage. 

If  this  happened  in  the  redness  of  the  morning,  or  the 
evening,  then  in  the  gleams  of  the  air  those  doves  seemed 
not  white,  but  rosy,  and  like  little  flames,  or  scattered 
rose  leaves  which  were  falling  on  the  roof  and  the  birch- 
tree. 

In  the  evening  when  the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  pine 
woods,  the  conversation  at  the  gable,  and  twittering  on 
the  birch,  grew  quiet  gradually.  The  sparrows  and 
doves  shook  the  dew  from  their  wings,  and  prepared  for 
rest;  sometimes  one  of  them  cooed  or  twittered  again; 


SIELANKA.  5 

but  each  time  more  rarely,  more  quietly,  more  drowsily, 
and  at  last  was  silent.  Darkness  fell  from  heaven  to  the 
earth;  the  cottage,  the  cherry-trees,  and  the  birch  grew 
dull  in  outline,  mingled  together,  were  concealed  in  and 
covered  with  mist,  which  rose  from  the  lake. 

Around  the  plain,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  extended 
a  wall  of  dark  pines  and  thicket.  This  wall  was  broken 
in  one  place,  and,  going  to  a  distance  in  the  form  of  a  cor- 
ridor, widened  more  and  more.  In  the  corridor  and  the 
widening  the  waves  of  the  lake  stammered,  and  washed 
the  edge  of  the  plain.  The  lake  was  long,  for  the  other 
end  of  it  was  almost  lost  in  the  distance,  and  through  a 
haze,  as  it  were,  one  could  see  a  red  roof  with  a  tower 
standing  at  the  other  side  of  a  little  church,  and  a  dark 
strip  of  forest  which  shut  out  the  horizon  not  far  beyond 
the  church. 

The  pine-trees  looked  down  from  the  high,  sandy  shores 
of  the  lake  as  if  into  a  mirror,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
another  forest  in  the  water,  and  if  the  forest  on  land 
moved,  that  in  the  water  moved  also;  when  there  was 
noise  on  land,  there  seemed  to  be  noise  in  the  water ;  "when 
amid  the  silence  of  the  air  the  forest  stood  motionless,  on 
the  smooth,  unwrinkled  water  every  needle  of  the  pines 
was  outlined  distinctly,  and  the  trees  went  straight  down 
as  rows  of  columns,  going  somewhere  far,  far  into  infinity. 

In  the  centre  of  the  lake  the  water  reflected  the  sun  in 
the  daytime,  in  the  morning  and  the  evening  a  ruddy 
light,  in  the  night  the  moon  and  stars ;  and  it  seemed  as 
deep  as  the  vault  of  heaven  is  high  above  us,  high 
beyond  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stars. 

In  the  cottage  dwelt  Stepan,  the  forester,  and  his 
daughter,  sixteen  years  of  age,  Kasia  by  name.  Kasia 
was  in  that  cottage  what  the  aurora  is  in  the  sky.  She 
was  reared  in  great  innocence  and  fear  of  God.  Her  dead 


6  SIELANKA. 

uncle,  who  in  his  time  had  eaten  bread  from  various  ovens, 
and  in  his  old  age  was  an  organist  in  the  neighboring 
church,  taught  her  to  read  pious  books ;  and  what  her 
uncle  had  not  finished  in  his  teaching,  forest  seclusion  had 
taught.  Hence  the  bees  had  taught  her  to  labor ;  doves 
to  be  pure ;  the  gray  sparrows  to  twitter  joyously  to  her 
old  father ;  the  still  water  of  the  lake,  calmness ;  the 
peace  of  the  heavens,  earthly  peace ;  the  early  church 
bell,  piety ;  and  the  goodness  of  God,  the  goodness  of 
people. 

Therefore  Kasia  and  her  father  led  a  peaceful  life,  and 
were  as  happy  as  in  the  calmness  and  seclusion  of  a 
forest  one  may  be  happy  in  this  world. 

Once  on  the  Saturday  before  Whitsuntide  old  Stepan 
came  home  at  noon.  He  had  gone  around  a  piece  of 
forest,  and  was  wearied,  for  he  had  returned  from  morasses 
and  swampy  thickets.  Kasia  put  his  dinner  before  him, 
and  after  dinner,  when  she  had  fed  the  dog  and  washed 
the  plates  and  pots,  she  said,  — 

"  Father  ? " 

"What?" 

"  I  will  go  to  the  forest." 

"  Go,  go.     Let  a  wolf  or  some  other  vermin  meet  thee." 

"  I  will  go  for  plants.  To-morrow  will  be  Whitsunday ; 
we  must  have  plants  for  the  church." 

"  Well,  go." 

Kasia  put  a  yellow  kerchief,  with  blue  flowers  worked 
on  it,  over  her  head,  and,  looking  for  a  basket  to  hold  the 
plants,  began  to  sing,  — 

"Oi,  the  young  falcon  has  come,  the  gray  falcon  has  flown 
to  us!" 

The  old  man  fell  to  scolding  her  good-naturedly. 

"  Hadst  thou  as  much  wish  to  work  as  to  sing  ? "  said  he. 


SIELANKA.  7 

Kasia,  who  had  risen  on  tip-toe  to  look  on  the  shelf, 
turned  her  face  toward  her  father,  laughed  joyously, 
and,  showing  her  white  teeth,  sang  on,  as  if  teasing  him : 

"  He  shouts  in  the  forest,  he  seeks  his  dear  cuckoo,  in  the  wood 
he  seeks  for  her." 

"  Thou  wouldst  be  glad  also  to  coocoo  a  falcon  to  thyself," 
said  the  old  man.  "  Perhaps  a  falcon  from  the  tar  pit  ? 
But  that  is  folly.  Thou  wilt  not  earn  a  morsel  of  bread 
by  thy  singing." 

To  that  Kasia  answered,  — 

"'Oh,  shout  not  young  falcon,  seek  not,  poor  falcon ! 
Thy  cuckoo  is  drowned  in  the  lake,  she  is  now  at  the  bottom.' 

"  And  let  father  keep  the  house,  I  will  come  back  before 
evening  and  milk  the  cows.  But  some  one  must  drive 
them  from  the  oak  grove."  She  found  her  basket,  kissed 
her  father's  hand,  and  went  out. 

Stepan  found  his  wicker  net,  which  was  already  begun, 
went  in  front  of  the  cottage  and  sat  down.  He  took 
his  cords  and  a  needle,  shut  one  eye  and  tried  to  thread 
the  needle ;  he  failed  to  the  right,  he  failed  to  the  left,  he 
spat,  at  last  he  aimed  well,  struck,  drew  the  cord  through, 
and  began  to  bind  the  net. 

But  from  time  to  time  he  looked  after  Kasia.  Kasia 
went  along  the  left  bank  of  the  lake,  and  on  the  lofty 
edge  of  the  bank  she  was  as  plainly  seen  as  in  a  picture. 
Her  white  shirt,  red  petticoat,  and  yellow  kerchief  seemed 
many-colored  from  a  distance,  like  a  flower.  Though 
spring,  the  heat  was  unendurable. 

When  she  had  gone  about  half  a  verst  from  the  cottage, 
she  turned  to  one  side  and  entered  the  pine  wood.  The 
hour  was  after  midday.  It  was  hot  in  the  world,  but 
cool  in  the  forest.  Kasia  went  straight  ahead  all  the 


8  SIELANKA. 

time,  suddenly  she  stopped,  laughed,  and  blushed  like  a 
cherry. 

Before  her,  on  a  path  which  vanished  in  the  depth  of 
the  forest,  stood  a  youth  eighteen  years  of  age  perhaps. 

This  youth  was  the  tar-boiler  from  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  who  was  going  just  then  to  Ste pan's  cottage. 

"  May  He  be  praised  ! "  said  the  tar-boiler. 

"  For  the  ages  of  ages  ! " 

Kasia  was  silent,  but  she  rubbed  her  eyes  from  bash- 
fulness,  and  then,  raising  her  apron,  she  covered  her  face 
with  it,  looking  from  under  the  edge  of  the  apron  with  a 
smile  into  Yasio's  face. 

"  Kasia  ? " 

"  What,  Yasio  ?  " 

"  But  is  thy  father  at  home  ? " 

"  He  is." 

The  tar-boiler,  poor  fellow,  did  not  want,  perhaps,  to 
inquire  about  the  father ;  but  somehow  he  was  frightened 
and  inquired  in  spite  of  himself.  Then  he  was  silent  and 
waited.  Would  Kasia  say  something  first  ? 

Kasia  stood  there  doing  nothing,  but  twisting  the  end 
of  her  apron,  terribly  bashful,  till  at  last  she  said,  — 

"  Yasio  ? " 

"What,  Kasia?" 

"  But  is  not  the  tar  pit  smoking  to-day  ? " 

She  too  wanted  to  ask  about  something  else. 

"  Why  should  n't  it  smoke  ?  It  never  stops  smoking. 
I  left  lame  Franek  there ;  but  thou,  Kasia,  art  twisting 
out  somehow,  like  a  fox,  onto  the  tar  pit." 

"Ei !  because  I  am  going  for  plants." 

"  I  will  go  with  thee,  and  when  we  come  back,  if  thou 
refuse  not,  I  will  go  to  the  cottage." 

"  I  ought  to  refuse." 

"  If  thou   like  me,  refuse  not ;   but  if  thou  like  me 


SIELANKA.  9 

not,  then  refuse.  Say,  Kasia,  a  little  word.  Dost  like 
me?" 

"  Thou  fate  !  Oh,  iny  fate ! "  and  Kasia  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  "  What  must  I  say  ?  I  like  thee, 
Yasio,  like  thee,  1  like  thee  terribly,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice. 

And  then  before  the  tar-boiler  could  give  her  an  answer, 
she  cried,  uncovering  her  blushing  face  and  eyes,  — 

"  Let  us  go  for  the  plants ;  let  us  go  in  a  breath  ! " 

They  went  then,  the  tar-boiler  and  Kasia.  They  were 
radiant  with  love  ;  but  these  simple  children  did  not  dare 
yet  to  speak  of  it.  They  only  felt  it,  they  knew  not  them- 
selves what  they  felt.  But  it  troubled  them  in  some 
way,  and  was  sweet.  And  never  had  the  forest  above 
their  heads  sung  to  them  so  wonderfully  with  its  sounds, 
never  had  the  breath  of  the  wind  seemed  so  delicious,  so 
fondling,  never  had  the  noise  of  the  pine  wood,  the  rustle 
of  the  breeze,  the  voices  of  birds,  and  that  sound  of  the 
forest  seemed  such  an  angel's  orchestra,  sweet,  though 
enormous,  as  just  at  that  moment  filled  so  with  awkward- 
ness and  unconscious  delight. 

Oh,  sacred  power  of  love,  what  a  good  angel  of  light 
art  thou,  what  a  rosy  dawn  in  darkness,  what  a  rainbow 
on  the  weeping  clouds  of  misfortune  ! 

In  the  pine  wood  went  a  resonant  echo  from  tree  to 
tree ;  it  repeated  the  barking  of  a  dog,  and  soon  Burek 
ran  up ;  he  had  escaped  from  the  cottage,  had  followed 
on  Kasia's  trail,  had  run  up  panting ;  with  great  delight 
he  sprang  onto  Kasia  with  his  big  paws,  and  onto  the 
tar-Loiler,  and  then  he  looked  at  one  and  the  other  with 
his  wise  and  mild  eyes,  as  if  wishing  to  say,  — 

"  You  are  in  love,  I  see  !     That  is  good ! " 

And  he  wagged  his  tail  with  delight;  then  he  ran 
with  a  great  rush,  making  larger  and  larger  circles, 


10  SIELANKA. 

till  at  last  he  stopped,  barked  once  more  joyfully,  and 
dashed  into  the  forest,  looking  around  from  time  to  time 
at  the  youth  and  the  maiden. 

Kasia  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  looking  up 
through  the  leaves  at  the  bright  sun,  exclaimed,  - 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake !  It  is  two  hours  after  midday, 
and  not  a  plant  yet !  Go  thou,  Yasio,  to  the  left,  I  will 
go  to  the  right,  and  collect.  We  must  hurry,  as  God  is 
dear  to  me  !  " 

They  separated  and  went  into  the  forest,  but  they 
went  forward  not  far  from  each  other,  and  at  the 
same  pace,  so  that  one  never  left  the  eyes  of  the  other. 
In  the  ferns,  as  on  a  green  wave,  among  the  trees  ap- 
peared the  colored  petticoat  and  the  yellow  kerchief  of 
Kasia.  The  slender  maiden  appeared  to  sail  on  amid  the 
berry-bushes,  mosses,  and  ferns.  One  might  have  said 
that  she  was  a  rusalka,  or  a  vila  of  the  forest;  every 
moment  she  bent  down  and  stood  erect  again,  and  so 
on,  and  on  ;  passing  the  pines,  she  vanished  from  the 
tar-boiler's  eyes ;  then  he  stopped, 'put  his  hands  to  his 
mouth  and  called  with  a  great  voice, — 

"  Hoop,  hoooop ! " 

Kasia,  hearing  this,  stopped,  with  a  smile,  and  pretend- 
ing not  to  see,  but  to  seek  him,  she  answered,  with  a  thin 
little  voice,  — 

"  Yasio ! " 

And  the  echo  answered,  — 

"  Yaa-a-sio ! " 

Meanwhile,  Burek  had  sniffed  a  squirrel  on  a  tree ;  so 
he  stood  at  the  foot  of  it,  raised  his  eyes  and  jaws  up- 
ward, and  went  to  barking.  The  squirrel,  sitting  on  the 
branch,  covered  itself  roguishly  with  its  tail,  raised  a  paw 
to  its  snout,  and  rubbing  its  nose,  seemed  to  play  with 
fingers  at  Burek,  and  to  ridicule  his  anger.  Kasia, 


SIELANKA.  11 

observing  this,  laughed  with  a  silvery,  resonant  laugh ; 
the  tar-boiler  followed  her  example,  and  the  forest  was 
filled  with  noise,  and  crying  of  people,  and  echoes,  and 
laughter,  and  joyous  happiness. 

At  times  silence  came  down  for  some  moments ;  noth- 
ing spoke  but  the  sound  of  the  forest.  A  slight  breeze 
played  in  the  leaves  of  the  fern ;  the  old  pine-trees 
groaned  once  —  and  then  all  was  stillness ! 

Next  was  heard  distinctly  the  measured  beating  of  a 
woodpecker.  It  seemed  as  if  some  one  were  knocking  at 
some  other  one's  door,  and  that  after  a  while  a  mys- 
terious forest  voice  asked,  — 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

Then  the  wiewilga  whistled  with  a  sweet  voice;  the 
hoopoo  raised  the  golden  crown  on  his  head,  and  opening 
his  beak  as  long  as  a  needle,  cried,  "  Hu  !  hu  !  hu  !  hup  ! 
hup!"  In  the  hazel  thicket  the  linnets  applauded;  green 
titmice  circled  around  among  the  leaves ;  from  time  to 
time  on  a  pine-top  some  crow  napped  his  black  wings, 
hiding  in  the  forest  from  heat. 

It  was  afternoon,  the  sky  was  very  clear,  not  even  a 
small  cloud  on  it,  and  above  the  green  dome  of  leaves 
extended  the  blue  dome  of  heaven,  immense,  limitless, 
blue  gray  at  the  edges,  deepest  azure  in  the  centre.  In 
the  sky  was  the  great  golden  sun ;  space  was  filled  with 
light;  and  the  air  was  so  clear  and  transparent  that  the 
most  remote  objects  came  out  of  the  blue  distance  defi- 
nite to  the  eye,  clear  in  form,  not  hazy.  From  the  height 
of  heaven  the  kind  Creator  had  taken  in  with  His  eye 
the  whole  region.  In  the  field  the  grain  with  its  golden 
wave  bowed  to  Him ;  the  heavy  heads  of  wheat  rustled ; 
the  thin  heads  of  oats  trembled  like  bells.  In  the  air, 
filled  with  brightness  of  the  sun  and  with  azure,  floated 
here  and  there  a  spring  spider  thread,  blue  from  the 


1-2  SIELANKA. 

azure,  and  golden  from  the  sun,  —  a  real  thread  from 
the  distaff  of  the  Mother  of  God. 

In  depressed  valleys,  between  strips  of  wheat,  the 
dark  fleece  of  meadows  looked  green.  Here  and  there, 
where  a  spring  bubbled  forth  in  the  grass,  the  green 
was  brighter,  and  that  whole  meadow  spot  was  covered 
with  yellow  buttercups ;  the  eye  was  struck  by  an  ex- 
cess of  golden  glitter.  In  wet  places  the  alders  looked 
dark ;  from  these  came  a  coolness  and  moisture. 

But  in  the  forest,  among  pines,  it  was  sultry,  and  there 
was  great  silence.  It  seemed  that  a  sort  of  drowsiness 
and  faintiiess  had  embraced  the  whole  region. 

After  a  while  the  breeze  stopped,  and  then  the  woods 
and  wheat  fields  and  grass  remained  motionless.  The 
leaves  hung  on  the  trees  as  if  cradled  to  sleep ;  the  noise 
of  birds  had  grown  silent,  —  the  moment  of  rest  had 
arrived.  But  that  seemed  a  rest  from  excess  of  sweet- 
ness, a  drowsiness  of  nature.  The  great  dome  of  heaven 
seemed  to  smile,  and  somewhere,  high,  high  in  the  unat- 
tainable blue,  the  great  God  delighted  Himself  benevo- 
lently with  the  delight  of  the  fields,  the  woods,  the 
meadows,  and  waters. 

Meanwhile  the  tar-boiler  and  Kasia  wandered  on  in 
the  forest,  selecting  plants,  laughing  or  chatting  joyously. 
A  peasant,  like  a  bird,  sings  when  he  can,  for  such  is  his 
nature.  The  tar-boiler  sang  a  simple,  but  melancholy 
song.  The  last  word  of  the  song  is  drawn  out  accord- 
ing to  its  melody,  prolonged,  sad ;  and  thus  prolonged 
and  sad  did  the  tar-boiler  and  Kasia  continue  it,  and 
the  echo  sang  to  them  in  accompaniment ;  in  the  dark 
depth  of  the  forest,  pine  gave  the  echo  to  pine,  and  the 
song  begun  in  words,  ran  through  the  row  of  pines  in 
the  forest  distance  with  a  sigh  more  and  more  indefinite, 
lighter,  weaker,  till  it  turned  at  last  into  silence. 


SIELANKA.  13 

Then  Kasia  sang  a  more  gladsome  song,  beginning 
with  the  words,  "  I  will  become  a  gold  ring !  "  This  is 
a  beautiful  song.  A  young,  wilful  maiden  contends  with 
her  lover  and  tells  the  methods  by  which  she  intends  to 
escape. 

But  she  has  no  weapons  against  him.  When  she  de- 
clares that  she  will  become  a  gold  ring  and  roll  along 
the  gray  highroad,  he  threatens  to  discover  the  ring 
with  swift  eyesight ;  when  she  wishes  to  become  a  golden 
fish  in  the  river,  he  sings  to  her  of  a  silken  net ;  when 
a  wild  duck  on  the  lake,  he  stands  before  her  as  a  hunter. 
When  at  last  the  poor  maiden  sees  that  she  cannot  hide 
on  earth  from  him,  she  sings,  — 

"  I  will  be  a  star  in  the  sky, 
I  will  shine  as  men  need  me. 
I  will  not  be  thy  love, 
I  will  not  do  thy  will." 

But  the  young  man,  disheartened  by  nothing,  replies : 

"  I  will  bow  down  in  church  nicely, 
I  will  pay  for  holy  mass,  and  the  star  will  fall. 
Thou  must  be  my  love, 
Thou  must  do  my  will. " 

The  girl  sees  that  there  is  no  escape  for  her  on  earth, 
or  in  the  sky,  so  she  agrees  with  the  will  of  Providence 
and  sings,  — 

"I  see,  God's  judgment  I  see, 
Wherever  I  hide  thou  wilt  find  me. 
I  must  be  thy  love, 
I  must  do  thy  will." 

"  Seest  thou,  Kasia  ? "  asked  the  tar-boiler. 
"What,  Yasio?" 
And  he  sang,  — 

"  Thou  must  be  my  love, 
Thou  must  do  my  will." 


14  SIELANKA. 

Kasia  was  bashful  again  ;  but  she  laughed,  and  wishing 
to  talk,  said, — 

"  I  have  collected  a  lot  of  plants ;  I  must  put  them  in 
water,  or  they  will  wither  in  the  heat  before  evening." 

There  was  great  heat  indeed  ;  the  wind  had  ceased  alto- 
gether. In  the  forest,  even  in  the  shade,  the  air  was 
quivering  with  boiling  heat,  the  pines  gave  out  a  strong, 
resinous  odor.  Kasia's  delicate,  golden-tinged  face  was 
moist,  and  her  blue  eyes  looked  wearied.  She  took  the 
kerchief  from  her  head  and  cooled  herself;  meanwhile 
the  tar-boiler  took  the  basket  of  plants  from  her  hand, 
and  said,  — 

"Hear  me,  Kasia.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here 
is  a  spring  between  the  alders.  Let  us  go  and  drink 
water." 

Both  went.  In  fact  after  a  short  time  the  forest  earth 
yielded  to  the  foot ;  among  the  trees,  instead  of  bill-berries, 
ferns,  and  dry  moss,  appeared  damp  green  turf,  one  alder 
appeared  and  another,  after  them  whole  rows.  They 
entered  a  dark,  damp  grove  where  the  sunlight,  passing 
through  leaves,  took  on  their  color  and  painted  people's 
faces  light  green. 

Yasio  and  Kasia  went  farther  into  shade  and  damp- 
ness. A  pronounced  coolness,  pleasant  after  the  heat  of 
the  forest,  surrounded  them,  and  soon  among  the  rows 
of  alders,  they  saw  in  the  black,  turfy  ground  a  deep 
brook,  overgrown  here  and  there  with  sweet  flag,  reeds, 
or  covered  with  great  round  leaves  of  the  water-lily, 
which  the  peasants  call  "the  white  one." 

It  was  a  beautiful  place,  quiet,  secluded,  shady,  even  a 
little  dark. 

The  clear  brook  wound  among  the  trees.  The  lilies, 
rocked  by  the  light  movement  of  the  water,  swayed 
gently  with  their  white  flowers ;  bending  toward  one 


SIELANKA.  15 

another,  they  seemed  to  kiss;  above  their  broad  leaves, 
which  lay  like  shields  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  dark 
sapphire-colored  grasshoppers  moved  around  in  the  air 
with  broad  and  rustling  wings,  so  delicate  and  slender 
that  people  call  them  "  water  maidens "  justly ;  black 
butterflies,  with  white  mourning  borders,  sat  on  the  points 
of  the  flag.  On  the  ruddy  background  of  turf  bloomed 
blue  forget-me-nots.  Here  and  there  rustled  a  clump  of 
slender  reeds,  on  which  the  wind  played  its  usual  songs. 
On  its  banks  grew  gloomy  thickets  of  the  snowball,  and 
under  the  thickets  were  heads  of  lilies  of  the  valley  and 
the  water-bell,  and  the  pimpernel  hung  its  white  head 
over  the  clear  water;  the  silvery  threads  of  larkspur, 
pulled  out  by  the  current,  waved  in  long  and  thin  tresses. 
As  to  the  rest,  solitude,  that  was  it !  wild  seclusion,  for- 
gotten by  people,  peaceful,  occupied  only  by  the  world  of 
birds,  flowers,  and  insects. 

In  such  a  silence  nymphs  and  rusalkas  dwell  usually, 
as  well  as  other  good  and  bad  forest  divinities.  So  when 
Kasia,  who  went  ahead,  stopped  first  on  the  bank  and 
looked  at  the  water,  in  which  her  charming,  slender 
form  was  reflected,  she  might  have  seemed  indeed  a  beau- 
tiful apparition  of  the  woodland,  such  as  foresters  meet  in 
the  woods  sometimes,  or  as  bargemen  meet  when  floating 
down  among  trees  with  their  flat-boats.  She  was  without 
a  kerchief  on  her  head ;  the  wind  had  blown  her  tresses 
apart  somewhat,  and  stirred  the  hair  on  her  forehead. 
She  was  bright-haired  and  sunburnt ;  she  had  eyes  smiling, 
but  blue  as  star-thistles,  and  lips  also  smiling.  Besides, 
she  was  tall  and  slender,  a  perfect  rusalka!  Nobody 
would  swear  that,  frightened  by  an  eye,  she  would  not 
spring  into  the  water,  or  vanish  in  mist,  in  a  rainbow, 
or  in  sunlight,  that  she  would  not  change  suddenly  into 
a  lily  or  a  snowball,  which,  when  thou  shouldst  wish  to 


16  SIELANKA. 

pluck  it,  would  say  in  human  speech,  though  in  speech 
like  the  rustle  of  a  tree, — 

"  Touch  me  not !  " 

Kasia  bent  from  the  turf  over  the  water  till  her  tresses 
fell  on  her  arms,  then  she  turned  to  the  tar-boiler,  — 

"  But  how  shall  we  drink,"  asked  she. 

"As  the  birds  drink,"  replied  Yasio,  and  pointed  at  a 
number  of  wagtails,  and  to  kingfishers,  beautiful  as  a 
rainbow ;  these  were  drinking  at  a  distance,  raising  their 
bills  toward  the  sky. 

The  tar-boiler  knew  how  to  help  himself  better  than  birds 
do,  for  he  took  an  enormous  leaf  of  water-lily,  twisted  it 
into  a  funnel,  and,  taking  water,  reached  it  to  Kasia. 

Kasia  drank,  and  the  tar-boiler  drank.  She  plucked 
some  forget-me-nots ;  he  took  out  his  knife,  cut  a  willow 
twig  and  made  a  whistle. 

The  whistle  was  finished  soon.  Yasio  put  it  to  his  lips 
and  played  a  simple  song,  like  those  which  shepherds  play 
ill  the  evenings  on  a  meadow.  The  pleasant  sounds 
spread  with  inexpressible  sweetness  in  that  seclusion. 
After  a  time  the  tar-boiler  took  the  whistle  from  his  lips, 
and  listened  to  catch,  with  his  ear,  the  echoes  playing  in 
the  alders ;  and  it  seemed  that  together  with  them  the 
clear  brook  heard  that  voice,  and  the  dark  alders,  and 
the  birds  hidden  in  the  reeds.  Everything  grew  silent, 
but,  after  a  while,  as  if  in  answer,  as  if  in  challenge,  was 
heard  a  light  whistle,  after  it  a  second  and  a  third.  It 
grew  still  more  silent.  That  was  the  nightingale,  the 
nightingale  had  challenged  the  whistle,  and  had  begun  to 
sing. 

All  listened  to  that  singer  of.  the  Lord.  The  water-lilies 
raised  their  heads  above  the  water;  the  forget-me-nots 
nestled  up  to  one  another ;  the  reeds  ceased  to  rustle ;  no 
bird  dared  raise  a  voice  ;  the  unwise  and  ruffled  cuckoo 


SIE  LANKA.  17 

alone  flew  up  over  the  water  with  quiet  wing,  sat  on  a 
knot,  raised  its  head,  opened  its  bill  widely,  and  said 
inanely,  "  Ku-ku  !  ku-ku  ! " 

But  afterward  it  was  evidently  ashamed  that  it  had 
acted  sot  stupidly,  for  it  was  silent  on  a  sudden. 

In  vain  did  Kasia,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  brook 
with  forget-me-nots  in  her  hand,  turn  to  that  side 
whence  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  had  come,  and  inquire : 

"Cuckoo,  oh,  blue  cuckoo,  have  I  long  to  live  ?" 

The  cuckoo  said  nothing  in  answer. 

"  Cuckoo,  shall  I  be  rich  ?  " 

The  cuckoo  said  nothing. 

Then  the  tar-boiler  said,  • — 

"  Cuckoo,  gray  cockoo,  will  my  wedding  come  soon  ? " 

The  cuckoo  said  nothing. 

"  He  will  not  answer,"  said  Yasio.     "  Let  us  go  back." 

On  returning  they  found  the  great  stone  near  which 
they  had  left  the  basket  and  dry  plants.  Kasia  sat  on 
the  grass  under  it  and  began  to  weave  garlands.  Yasio 
helped  her.  Burek  planted  himself  before  them,  stretched 
forward  his  shaggy  paws,  dropped  out  his  tongue,  and 
began  to  pant  from  exertion,  looking  around  carefully  to 
discover  some  living  creature  at  which  to  rush  and  make 
an  uproar.  But  it  was  silent  in  the  woods  round  about. 
The  sun  was  inclining  toward  the  west,  and  through 
the  leaves  and  the  needles  of  the  pines  its  rays  came  in 
ever  ruddier,  covering  the  ground  of  the  forest  with  great 
golden  spots.  The  air  was  dry ;  on  the  west  the  great 
golden  light  of  evening  was  spreading  like  a  sea  of  molten 
gold  and  amber.  A  calm,  warm  spring  evening  was  burn- 
ing in  the  sky.  In  the  forest  the  labor  of  the  day  was 
ceasing  gradually.  The  hammering  of  the  woodpecker 
had  grown  still ;  black  and  reddish  ants  were  returning 
in  rows  to  their  ant-heaps,  which  were  red  from  the 

2 


18  SIELANKA. 

evening  light  and  the  rays  of  the  sun ;  some  of  them  were 
carrying  pine-needles  in  their  mouths,  others,  insects. 
Among  the  plants  were  whirling  here  and  there  small 
forest  bees,  buzzing  gladly  as  usual :  "  Dana,  oh,  dana  !  " 
completing  the  last  load  of  honey  dust.  Prom  cracks  in 
the  split  bark  of  trees  were  emerging  the  gloomy,  blind 
legions  of  the  night:  in  the  torrents  of  golden  light 
moved  swarms  of  moths,  gnats  scarcely  visible  to  the  eye ; 
mosquitoes  began  their  sad  songs.  On  the  trees  birds 
chose  their  places  for  sleep.  At  one  moment  a  yellow- 
beaked  blackbird  or  crow  napped  its  wings.  After  seiz- 
ing a  tree,  the  birds  fought  about  the  best  branch.  But 
those  voices  grew  rarer  and  rarer  and  weaker.  Gradually 
they  ceased  altogether,  and  silence  was  broken  only  by 
the  rustle  of  the  trees.  The  hazel  bush  raised  its  grayish 
leaves  upward;  the  royal  oak  muttered,  or  the  birch 
moved  its  tresses.  After  that  there  was  silence. 

The  evening  grew  still  redder,  and  in  the  east  the 
deep  blue  of  heaven  became  darker ;  now  all  the  sounds 
of  the  forest  were  mingled  in  majestic  and  low,  though 
immense,  choruses,  —  that  was  the  forest,  which,  before  it 
goes  to  sleep,  before  night,  prays  and  repeats  its  "  Our 
Father : "  the  trees  declare  the  praise  of  God  to  other 
trees,  and  thou  mightst  say  that  they  were  discoursing  in 
human  speech. 

Ah  !  only  very  innocent  souls  understand  this  mighty 
and  blessed  speech.  Ah !  only  very  innocent  hearts 
listen  and  understand  when  the  first  chorus  of  the  fathers 
of  oaks  begins  the  converse,  — 

"  Eejoice,  sister  pines,  the  Lord  has  given  us  a  calm 
and  warm  day,  and  now  a  starry  night  is  falling  on  the 
earth.  The  Great  Lord,  Mighty,  mightier  than  we,  but 
kind,  hence  praise  be  to  Him  on  the  heights,  and  on  the 
waters,  and  on  land,  and  in  the  air  ! " 


SIELANKA.  19 

And  the  pines  consider  the  words  of  the  oak  for  a 
while,  and  then  answer  in  a  concordant  chorus, — 

"Ah,  behold,  O  Lord,  in  Thy  praise,  as  an  offering  of 
incense,  we  drop  sweet  balsam  and  a  strong  and  mighty 
resinous  odor.  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed 
be  Thy  name  !  " 

And  then  the  birches,  — 

"  The  twilight  of  evening  is  burning  in  the  sky,  O 
Lord,  and  in  the  gleams  of  it  our  leaves  are  golden  and 
burning.  Hence,  with  our  golden  leaves,  we  raise  a  hymn 
to  Thee,  O  Lord,  and  our  slender  branches  play  like 
harps,  0  Thou,  our  good  Father ! " 

And  then  the  melancholy  fir,  — 

"  On  our  gloomy  foreheads,  tortured  with  heat,  the 
evening  dew  is  falling.  Praise  to  the  Lord !  Brothers 
and  sisters,  rejoice,  for  the  dew  of  the  evening  is  falling  ! " 

And  amid  these  choruses  the  aspen  alone  trembles 
timidly,  for  the  aspen  gave  wood  for  the  cross  to  crucify 
our  Redeemer,  and  at  intervals  only  it  groans  in  a  low 
voice,  "  O  Lord,  have  pity  on  me ! " 

And  again,  when  the  oaks  and  pines  have  grown  silent 
for  a  space,  from  the  foot  of  them  rises  a  low,  timid, 
small  voice,  as  weak  as  the  buzzing  of  a  mosquito,  as 
feeble  as  silence  itself.  That  little  voice  sings,  — 

"  I  am  a  berry,  O  Lord !  small  and  sheltered  in  the 
moss.  But  Thou  wilt  hear  me,  distinguish  me,  and  love 
me ;  for  though  small,  I  am  pious,  arid  I  sing  to  Thee  to 
increase  Thy  glory  ! " 

So  prays  the  forest  daily,  and  such  a  concert  rises  every 
evening  to  the  heavens  from  the  earth,  and  flies  high, 
high,  up,  where  there  is  no  created  thing,  where  there  is 
nothing  save  the  silver  star  dust  and  the  Milky  Way,  and 
the  stars  —  and  above  the  stars  —  God ! 

At  such  a  moment  the  sun  sinks  his  radiant  head  in 


20  SIELANKA. 

the  distant  sea ;  the  field-worker  turns  upward  his  plough- 
point  and  hastens  to  his  cottage.  The  lowing  cattle 
return  from  the  field,  sounding  their  wooden  bells ;  the 
sheep  raise  clouds  of  golden  dust.  Then  darkness  falls. 
In  the  distant  village  the  well-sweep  squeaks,  the  win- 
dows gleam,  and  from  afar,  afar,  comes  the  barking  of 
dogs. 

But  when  Kasia  had  sat  down  to  weave  garlands  under 
the  mossy  stone,  the  sun  had  not  sunk  yet  beyond  the 
forest.  On  the  contrary,  its  rays,  broken  by  the  shadows 
of  limbs  and  leaves,  threw  light  on  her  face.  The  work 
did  not  advance  hurriedly,  for  Kasia  was  wearied  by  heat 
and  running  through  the  forest.  Her  sunburnt  hands 
twisted  the  strands  of  the  plants.  The  warm  wind  kissed 
her  temples  and  face,  and  the  sound  of  the  trees  lulled 
her  to  slumber.  Her  large  sleepy  eyes  became  gleaming  ; 
her  lids  began  to  close  slowly ;  she  rested  her  head  on 
the  stone ;  once  more  she  opened  her  lids  widely,  like 
a  child  which  looks  on  God's  world  with  wonder,  —  then 
the  sound  of  trees,  the  rows  of  tree-trunks,  the  forest 
earth  covered. with  pine-needles,  and  the  heavens  visible 
through  the  branches,  grew  indistinct  before  her,  began 
to  mingle,  she  smiled,  and  fell  asleep. 

Her  head  at  that  moment  was  in  a  mild  shade,  but  the 
shirt  over  her  bosom  was  covered  with  a  light  like  that 
of  morning,  and  it  shone  all  rosy  and  purple.  A  slight 
breathing  moved  her  bosom,  and  she  was  so  wonderful 
in  that  sleep,  and  in  those  afternoon  gleams,  that  Yasio 
looked  on  her  as  he  would  on  an  image  in  the  church  all 
glittering  in  gold,  and  like  a  many-colored  rainbow. 

Kasia's  hands  held  a  still  unfinished  green  garland. 
She  was  sleeping  evidently  with  a  light  and  pleasant 
sleep,  for  she  smiled  in  her  sleep,  like  a  child  talking 
with  angels.  Perhaps  too  she  was  talking  with  angels, 


SIELANKA.  21 

for  she  was  as  pure  as  a  child,  and  she  had  served  God  all 
that  day,  weaving  garlands  for  the  church  on  the  morrow. 

Yasio  sat  near  her,  but  he  did  not  sleep.  His  simple 
breast  was  expanded  by  feeling ;  he  felt  as  if  his  soul  had 
gained  wings,  and  was  ready  to  fly  into  heavenly  spaces. 
A  hei !  hei !  he  knew  not  himself  what  was  happening 
within  him,  so  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  it 
might  have  been  said  that  love  had  transfixed  him. 

And  long  yet  slept  Kasia,  and  long  both  sat  thus. 

Meanwhile  the  shade  of  evening  came.  The  remnants 
of  the  purple  light  were  struggling  with  shade.  In  the 
forest  it  had  grown  dark  —  silent.  From  the  reeds  of 
the  lake,  from  the  direction  of  the  cottage  and  the  plain, 
came  the  night  calls  of  the  bittern. 

All  at  once,  in  the  little  church  beyond  the  lake,  the 
Angelus  sounded.  That  sound  flew  over  the  peaceful 
lake,  flew  on  the  wings  of  the  evening  breeze,  pure,  reso- 
nant, and  far  reaching.  This  summoned  the  faithful  to 
prayer,  and  at  the  same  time  announced  rest,  "  Enough 
of  toil  and  heat,"  said  the  bell ;  "  fold  yourselves  to  sleep 
under  the  wing  of  the  Lord.  Go,  go,  ye  wearied,  to  God, 
in  Him  is  rejoicing !  Here  is  quiet,  here  is  joy,  here  is 
sleep  !  here  is  sleep  !  here  is  sleep !  here  is  sleep ! " 

The  tar-boiler  removed  his  cap  at  the  sound  of  the 
bell.  Kasia  shook  the  sleep  from  her  eyes,  and  asked,  — 

"  Are  they  ringing  ?  " 
•"The  Angelus." 

Both  knelt  near  the  moss-covered  stone,  as  near  an 
altar.  Kasia  began  to  recite  in  a  melancholy  voice : 

"  The  angel  of  the  Lord  declared  unto  Mary  —  " 

"And  She  conceived  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  answered 
Yasio. 

"  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord  — 

And  thus  kneeling,  those  simple  children  prayed.    The 


22  SIELANKA. 

calm  summer  lightning  flew  from  the  east  to  the  west, 
and  in  its  light  came  down  from  heaven  a  crowd  of 
winged  angels,  and  hung  over  the  heads  of  those  two. 
And  then  they  mingled  with  angels,  and  they  were  them- 
selves almost  angels,  as  it  were,  for  there  was  nothing 
clearer,  purer,  and  more  innocent  on  earth  than  those 
two. 


JFOE  BKEAD. 


FOR  BREAD. 
I. 

ON  THE  OCEAN  — MEDITATION— A   STORM— THE 
ARRIVAL. 

ON  the  broad  waves  of  the  ocean  the  German  steamer 
Bliicher  was  rocking  as  it  sailed  to  New  York  from 
Hamburg. 

That  was  its  fourth  day  on  the  voyage ;  two  days  before 
it  had  passed  the  green  shores  of  Ireland,  and  had  come 
out  on  the  open  ocean.  From  the  deck,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  nothing  was  visible  save  the  green  and  gray 
plain;  ploughed  into  furrows  and  ridges,  swaying  heavily,  in 
places  foaming,  in  the  distance  darker  and  darker  and 
blending  with  the  horizon,  which  was  covered  with  white 
clouds. 

The  light  of  these  clouds  fell  in  places  on  the  water 
too,  and  on  that  pearly  background  the  black  body  of  the 
vessel  was  outlined  distinctly.  The  prow  of  that  body 
was  turned  to  the  west ;  now  it  rose  on  a  wave  with  great 
labor,  now  it  plunged  into  the  depth,  as  if  drowning ;  at 
moments  it  vanished  from  the  eye ;  at  moments,  lifted  on 
the  back  of  a  billow,  it  rose  so  high  that  the  bottom  of  it 
was  visible,  but  the  steamer  went  forward.  The  sea 
moved  toward  it,  and  it  toward  the  sea,  cleaving  the 
water  with  its  breast.  Behind  it,  like  a  giant  serpent, 
chased  a  white  road  of  foaming  water ;  sea-gulls  flew  after 
the  rudder,  turning  somersaults  in  the  air  and  piping  like 
Polish  lapwings. 


26  FOR  BREAD. 

The  wind  was  favorable;  the  vessel  was  going  with 
half  steani,  but  all  sails  were  raised  on  it.  The  weather 
grew  better  and  better.  In  places  among  the  rent  clouds 
bits  of  blue  sky  could  be  seen  changing  their  forms 
unceasingly.  From  the  moment  that  the  Bliicher  had 
left  the  port  of  Hamburg,  the  weather  had  been  windy, 
but  without  storm  ;  the  wind  blew  toward  the  west,  but 
at  times  it  ceased;  then  the  sails  dropped  with  a  flap- 
ping, to  swell  out  again  like  the  breast  of  a  swan.  The 
sailors,  in  close-fitting  knit  jackets,  tightened  the  line  in 
the  lower  yard  of  the  mainsail,  chanting  a  melancholy : 
"  Ho —  ho  —  o ! "  They  bent  and  straightened  themselves 
in  time  with  the  sound,  and  their  voices  were  mingled 
with  the  midshipmen's  whistles,  and  the  feverish  puffing 
of  smoke-stacks  which  hurled  out  broken  bundles  or 
rings  of  black  smoke. 

The  passengers  had  come  out  on  deck  numerously. 
In  the  stern  of  the  steamer  were  those  of  the  first-class, 
in  black  overcoats  and  caps ;  toward  the  prow  had  as- 
sembled the  particolored  multitude  of  emigrants  who 
lived  between  decks.  Some  of  these  were  sitting  on 
benches,  smoking  short  pipes ;  others,  lying  down  ;  others, 
leaning  against  the  bulwarks,  were  gazing  into  the  water. 

There  were  women  with  children  in  their  arms,  and 
with  tin  cups  fastened  to  their  girdles ;  there  were 
young  people  walking  backward  and  forward  from  the 
prow  to  the  bridge,  preserving  their  balance  with  diffi- 
culty and  staggering  from  moment  to  moment  as  they 
sang:  "Wo  ist  das  deutsche  Vaterland!"  and  thinking, 
perhaps,  that  they  would  never  again  see  that  "  Vaterland," 
still  gladness  did  not  leave  their  faces.  Among  the  pas- 
sengers were  two,  the  saddest  of  all,  and  separated,  as 
it  were,  from  the  others :  an  old  man  and  a  young  girl. 
Neither  understood  German,  and  they  were  really  alone 


FOR  BREAD.  27 

and  among  strangers.  Who  were  they  ?  —  each  one  of  us l 
would  have  divined  at  the  first  glance  that  they  were 
Polish  peasants. 

The  man  was  called  Vavron  Toporek,  and  the  girl 
was  Marysia,  his  daughter.  They  were  going  to  America, 
and  had  taken  courage  a  moment  before  to  come  out  on 
deck  for  the  first  time.  On  their  faces,  thin  from  sickness, 
were  depicted  both  fear  and  astonishment.  They  looked, 
with  frightened  eyes  at  their  companions  of  the  journey, 
at  the  sailors,  at  the  steamer,  at  the  smoke-stacks,  belch- 
ing forth  mightily,  at  the  terrible  walls  of  water  which 
hurled  wreaths  of  foam  to  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  They 
said  nothing  to  each  other,  for  they  dared  not.  Vavron 
held  the  railing  with  one  hand,  and  his  four-cornered  cap 
with  the  other,  lest  the  wind  might  sweep  it  away  from 
him;  Marysia  held  to  her  father,  and  when  the  ship 
inclined  more  steeply,  she  held  to  him  more  closely,  and 
cried  in  a  low  voice  from  fear.  After  a  certain  time  the 
old  man  broke  the  silence,  — 

"Marysia!" 

"  But  what  ? " 

"  Dost  see  ? " 

"  I  see." 

"  And  dost  wonder  ? " 

"  I  wonder." 

But  she  feared  still  more  than  she  wondered ;  it  was 
the  same  with  old  Toporek. 

Happily  for  them,  the  waves  decreased ;  the  wind  went 
down ;  and  the  sun  broke  forth  through  the  clouds. 
When  they  saw  the  "  dear  beloved  sun,"  it  became  easier  at 
their  hearts;  for  they  thought  to  themselves  that  that 
sun  was  "just  the  very  same  as  in  Lipintse."  Indeed 
everything  was  new  and  unknown  to  them;  that  sun 

1  Poles,  as  the  author  is. 


28  FOR  BREAD. 

disk  alone,  gleaming  and  radiant,  seemed  as  it  were  an 
old  friend  and  guardian. 

Meanwhile  the  sea  became  smoother  and  smoother  ; 
after  a  time  the  sails  slackened ;  and  from  the  lofty  bridge 
was  heard  the  whistle  of  the  captain,  and  the  sailors 
rushed  to  reef  them.  The  sight  of  these  sailors  suspended, 
as  if  in  the  air  above  an  abyss,  filled  Toporek  and  Mary- 
sia  with  wonder  a  second  time. 

"  Our  boys  could  not  do  that,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Wherever  Germans  go,  Yasko  can  go,"  replied 
Marysia, 

"  Which  Yasko  ?     Is  it  Sobkov  ? " 

"  How  Sobkov  ?     I  mean  Smolak,  the  groom." 

"  He  is  a  smart  fellow,  but  drive  him  from  thy  head. 
Thou  art  not  for  him,  nor  he  for  thee.  Thou  art  to  be  a 
lady ;  and  he,  as  he  is  a  groom,  will  remain  a  groom." 

"  But  he  has  land  too." 

"  He  has,  but  it  is  in  Lipintse." 

Marysia  said  nothing ;  but  she  thought  to  herself  that 
whatever  was  fated  would  not  fail,  and  she  sighed  sadly. 
Meanwhile  the  sails  were  reefed ;  but  the  screw  stirred 
the  water  so  mightily  that  the  whole  steamer  quivered 
from  its  movements.  The  rocking  had  stopped  almost 
completely.  In  the  distance  the  water  seemed  even  now 
smooth  and  azure.  From  moment  to  moment  new  figures 
came  up  from  below :  laborers,  German  peasants,  street 
idlers  from  various  seaports,  people  going  to  America  to 
seek  fortune,  not  work ;  a  throng  took  possession  of  the 
deck,  so  Vavron  and  Marysia,  to  crowd  no  one,  sat  on  a 
coil  of  rope  in  the  very  point  in  the  prow. 

"Tatulo  (papa),  shall  we  go  long  through  the  water 
yet  ? "  inquired  Marysia. 

"Do  I  know.  Whomever  thou  may  ask,  no  one  will 
answer  in  Catholic  fashion." 


FOR  BREAD.  29 

"  But  how  shall  we  talk  in  America  ? " 

"Have  men  not  said  that  there  is  a  cloud  of  our 
people  there?" 

"  Tatulo  ? " 

"  What  ? " 

"To  wonder  there  is  something  to  wonder  at,  still  it 
was  better  in  Lipiutse." 

"Better  not  blaspheme  for  nothing." 

But  after  a  while  Vavron  added,  as  if  speaking  to 
himself,  — 

"The  will  of  God!" 

The  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears;  and  both  began  to 
think  of  Lipintse. 

Vavron  Toporek  considered  why  he  was  going  to 
America,  and  how  it  had  happened.  How  had  it  hap- 
pened ?  Well,  half  a  year  before,  in  the  summer,  they 
had  seized  his  cow  in  a  clover  field.  The  owner  of  the 
clover,  who  took  her,  wanted  three  rubles  damages ; 
Vavron  would  not  give  them.  The  man  went  to  law. 
The  case  dragged  on.  The  injured  owner  of  the  clover 
wanted  now  not  only  the  damage  for  the  clover,  but  the 
cost  of  keeping  the  cow,  and  the  cost  increased  daily. 
Vavron  refused  it;  since  he  was  sorry  for  the  money. 
He  had  spent  no  little  for  the  suit  itself ;  it  dragged  on, 
and  dragged  on.  The  cost  increased  all  the  time.  Finally 
Vavron  lost  the  case.  Besides,  for  the  cow  he  had  in- 
curred cost,  God  knows  how  much;  as  he  had  no  money 
to  pay,  his  horse  was  taken  ;  and  the  court  sentenced  him 
to  arrest  for  resistance.  Toporek  squirmed  like  a  snake, 
for  the  harvest  was  just  coming,  so  hands  and  energy 
were  needed  for  work.  He  was  late  at  bringing  in  his 
grain,  then  rain  began  to  fall ;  the  wheat  grew  in  the 
bundles.  Hence  he  thought  that  by  the  single  damage  to 
that  clover  all  his  little  property  would  be  wasted ;  that 


30  FOR  BREAD. 

he  had  lost  so  much  money,  a  part  of  his  cattle,  all  his 
year's  grain ;  and  that  before  the  new  harvest  either  he 
and  the  girl  would  have  to  eat  earth,  or  beg  bread. 

As  the  man  had  been  well-to-do  and  successful  before, 
so  terrible  despair  seized  him  now,  and  he  fell  to  drinking. 
In  the  public  house  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  German 
who  was  bargaining  for  flax,  as  he  said,  through  the  vil- 
lages ;  but  really  he  was  luring  people  beyond  the  sea. 

The  German  told  Vavron  miracles  and  wonders  about 
America.  He  promised  him  more  land  for  nothing  than 
there  was  in  all  Lipintse,  and  with  a  forest,  and  with 
meadows ;  Vavron's  eyes  laughed.  He  believed  and  he 
did  not  believe ;  but  the  Jew  dairy-man  supported  the 
German,  and  said  that  the  Government  there  gave  each 
man  as  much  land  "as  he  could  use."  The  Jew  had 
learned  this  from  his  nephew.  On  his  part,  the  German 
showed  an  amount  of  money  which  not  only  a  peasant's 
eyes,  but  even  the  eyes  of  an  heir,  had  not  seen  in  his 
lifetime.  They  tempted  the  man  till  they  convinced 
him.  Why  should  he  stay  at  home?  For  one  loss  he 
had  spent  so  much  money  that  he  might  have  kept  a 
man  for  it.  Was  he  to  yield  himself  to  ruin  ?  Was  he 
to  take  a  staff  in  his  hand  and  sing  at  the  church: 
"  Holy  heavenly,  angelic  Lady  ? "  "  Nothing  of  that  will 
come  ! "  thought  he.  He  struck  hands  with  the  German, 
sold  out  before  Saint  Michaels,  took  his  daughter,  and 
now  he  was  sailing  to  America. 

But  the  journey  was  not  the  success  he  had  expected. 
In  Hamburg  people  had  dragged  much  money  from  him ; 
on  the  steamer  he  and  his  daughter  went  between  decks 
in  the  steerage.  The  rocking  of  the  ship,  and  the  end- 
lessness of  the  ocean  terrified  them.  No  man  could 
understand  him,  and  he  could  understand  no  man.  They 
were  thrown  around,  each  of  them,  like  a  thing,  pushed 


FOR  BREAD.  31 

aside  like  a  stone  on  a  highway  ;  the  Germans,  their  fellow- 
passengers,  reviled  him  and  Marysia.  At  dinner-time, 
when  all  crowded  with  their  plates  to  the  cook  who  dis- 
tributed food,  they  were  pushed  away  to  the  very  last, 
so  that  more  than  once  they  had  to  suffer  from  hunger. 
On  that  ship  it  was  strange  and  sad.  Save  the  care  of 
God,  Vavron  felt  none  other  above  him.  He  put  on  a 
bold  face  before  the  girl,  raised  his  cap  on  the  side  of  his 
head,  told  Marysia  to  admire  things,  admired  everything 
himself,  but  trusted  in  nothing.  At  times  he  was  seized 
by  fear  that  perhaps  those  "pagans,"  as  he  called  his 
fellow-passengers,  would  throw  him  and  Marysia  into  the 
sea,  perhaps  they  would  force  them  to  change  their 
religion,  or  sign  some  paper,  yes  !  even  a  "  cyrograf ." 

The  steamer  itself,  which  went  on  day  and  night  over 
the  boundless  ocean,  shook  and  roared,  raising  water  and 
foam,  that  steamer  which  puffed  like  a  dragon,  and  drew 
after  it  at  night  a  line  of  fiery  sparks,  seemed  to  him  some 
kind  of  power  which  was  suspicious  and  very  uncanny.- 
Childish  fears,  though  he  did  not  confess  them,  straitened 
his  heart;  for  that  Polish  peasant,  torn  away  from  his 
native  nest,  was  in  truth  a  helpless  child,  and  really  at 
the  mercy  of  God.  Besides,  he  could  understand  nothing 
that  he  saw,  nothing  about  him ;  so  it  is  not  a  wonder 
that,  when  he  was  sitting  on  that  coil  of  rope,  his  head 
bent  under  the  weight  of  oppressive  uncertainty  and 
vexation,  the  breeze  of  the  ocean  sang  in  his  ear  and 
seemed  to  repeat  the  word :  "  Lipintse !  Lipintse !  "  at 
times  also  it  piped  like  the  whistles  of  Lipintse  ;  the  sun 
said :  "  How  art  thou,  Vavron  ?  I  have  been  in  Lipiutse." 
But  the  screw  whirled  the  water  with  still  mightier 
force,  and  the  smoke-stack  puffed  more  loudly,  more 
quickly,  —  they  were  like  two  evil  spirits  drawing  him 
farther  and  farther  from  Lipintse. 


32  FOR  BREAD. 

But  other  thoughts  and  memories  were  pursuing 
Marysia,  like  that  foaming  road,  or  the  gulls  which  flew 
after  the  steamer.  She  remembered  how  one  evening 
in  the  autumn,  not  long  before  their  departure,  she  went 
to  the  well,  which  had  a  sweep  above  it,  to  draw  water. 
The  first  stars  were  twinkling  in  the  sky,  and  she  was 
drawing  the  sweep,  singing :  "  Yasio  was  watering  the 
horses  —  Kasia  had  come  to  the  well  —  '  and  somehow 
she  felt  as  sad  as  a  swallow  twittering  before  its  depar- 
ture. Then  from  the  pine  wood,  from  the  dark  one,  the 
swamp  gave  forth  a  drawling  sound ;  that  was  Yasko 
Smolak,  the  groom,  letting  her  know  that  he  saw  the 
well-sweep  inclining,  and  that  he  would  come  from  the 
pasture  immediately.  Indeed  there  was  trampling ;  he 
rode  up ;  he  sprang  from  his  horse ;  he  shook  his  yellow 
forelock  ;  and  she  remembered  what  he  said  to  her  as  if  it 
had  been  music.  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  Smolak  was  whispering  again  to  her,  in  a 
•quivering  voice,  — 

"  If  thy  father  is  stubborn,  I  will  give  up  all  in  the 
mansion ;  I  will  sell  my  cottage,  my  village  land,  and 
go  —  My  Marysia,"  said  he,  "  wherever  thou  shalt  be, 
I  will  fly  through  the  air  as  a  stork  to  thee,  or  swim  as  a 
duck  through  the  water,  or  roll  on  the  road  as  a  gold 
ring,  and  find  thee,  thou,  my  only  one !  Have  I  fortune 
without  thee  ?  Whither  thou  turnest,  I  shall  turn  also. 
Whatever  happens  thee,  will  happen  me  also;  one  life 
and  one  death  to  us.  And  as  I  have  promised  here 
above  the  water  of  this  well,  so  may  God  desert  me  as 
I  desert  thee,  Marysia,  my  only  one." 

Eemembering  these  words,  Marysia  saw  the  well  and 
the  great  ruddy  moon  above  the  pine  wood,  and  Yasko  as 
if  living.  She  found  solace  in  that  memory  and  great 
comfort.  Yasko  was  resolute ;  hence  she  believed  that 


FOR  BREAD.  33 

he  would  do  what  he  had  promised.  Then  all  she 
wished  was  that  he  might  be  there,  and  listen  with  her 
to  the  sounds  of  the  ocean.  In  his  company,  all  would 
be  livelier  and  more  cheerful,  for  he  feared  no  man,  and 
could  help  himself  anywhere.  What  was  he  doing  then 
in  Lipintse  ?  The  first  snows  must  have  fallen.  Had  he 
gone  with  his  axe  to  the  forest,  was  he  harnessing  horses, 
had  they  sent  him  to  some  place  from  the  mansion,  with 
the  sleigh?  was  he  cutting  openings  in  the  ice  of  the 
pond  ?  Where  was  he,  dear  fellow  ?  Here  Lipintse 
appeared  to  her  just  as  it  had  been  :  snow  squeaking  on 
the  road,  the  ruddy  light  of  evening  between  dark,  leafless 
tree  branches,  flocks  of  crows  flying  from  the  pine  wood 
to  the  village  with  cawing,  smoke  rising  skyward  from 
the  chimneys,  the  frozen  sweep  at  the  well,  and  in  the 
distance  pine  woods  ruddy  in  the  light  of  evening,  and 
snow-covered. 

Ah,  where  is  she  now  !  Where  has  her  father's  will 
brought  her!  In  the  distance,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  nothing  but  water,  green  furrows,  foaming  ridges, 
and  on  those  boundless  fields  of  water  that  one  ship, 
like  a  lost  bird ;  heaven  above  them,  a  desert  beneath,  a 
mighty  sound  as  it  were  the  weeping  of  waves  and  the 
whistling  of  winds,  and  off  there,  before  the  beak  of  the 
vessel,  the  ninth  land,  or  the  end  of  the  world. 

Yasko,  poor  fellow,  wilt  thou  meet  her  there  ?  Wilt 
thou  fly  thither  through  the  air  in  the  form  of  a  falcon  ? 
or  wilt  thou  swim  through  the  water  disguised  as  a  fish  ? 
or  art  thou  thinking  of  her  in  Lipintse  ? 

The  sun  inclined  toward  the  west  gradually,  and  was 
going  down  in  the  ocean.  On  the  wrinkled  billows  the 
broad  sunny  pathway,  stretched  behind,  shaped  itself  into 
golden  scales,  changed,  glittered,  shone,  was  consumed  and 
perished  somewhere  in  remoteness.  The  ship,  sailing  on 


34  FOR  BREAD. 

over  that  fiery  ribbon,  seemed  to  pursue  the  fleeing  sun. 
The  smoke,  bursting  from  the  smoke-stack,  grew  ruddy ; 
the  sails  and  damp  ropes  became  rosy;  the  sailors  fell 
now  to  singing ;  meanwhile  the  radiant  circle  increased 
and  settled  down  lower  toward  the  ocean.  Soon  only  one 
half  of  the  shield  was  seen  above  the  water,  then  only 
rays,  and  after  that  the  whole  west  was  filled  with  one 
immense  ruddiness,  and  it  was  unknown  in  those  gleams 
where  the  brightness  of  the  waves  found  its  end,  and  the 
sky  its  beginning.  The  air  and  the  water  were  penetrated 
in  like  manner  with  light,  which  quenched  gradually ; 
the  ocean  sounded  with  one  great  but  mild  voice,  as  if 
it  were  murmuring  an  evening  prayer. 

In  such  moments  the  soul  in  a  man  receives  wings, 
and  what  he  had  to  remember,  he  remembers ;  what  he 
loved,  he  loves  still  more  ardently;  that  after  which  he 
yearns,  to  that  does  he  fly  now. 

Vavron  and  Marysia  felt,  both  of  them,  that  though 
the  wind  was  bearing  them  like  helpless  leaves,  the  tree 
from  which  they  were  borne  was  not  in  the  direction  in 
which  they  were  going,  but  that  from  which  they  were 
coming  :  the  Polish  land,  that  grain  land,  waving  in  one 
field,  grown  over  with  pine-trees,  dotted  with  straw  roofs, 
full  of  meadows,  of  golden  buttercups,  and  gleaming 
water,  full  of  storks  and  swallows,  crosses  by  the  road- 
side, white  mansions  among  lindens ;  she,  who  with  a 
pointed  cap  under  her  feet,  with  the  word  "  Praised ! " 
greets  and  answers  "  for  the  ages  of  ages,"  she  the  vener- 
able, she  the  sweetest  mother,  so  true,  beloved  above  all 
others  on  the  earth  !  Hence  what  their  peasant  hearts 
had  not  felt  before,  they  felt  then.  Vavron  removed  his 
cap ;  the  evening  light  fell  on  his  hair,  growing  gray ;  his 
mind  was  laboring,  for  the  poor  man  knew  not  how  he 
was  to  tell  Marysia  what  his  belief  was.  At  last  he 


FOR  BREAD.  35 

said :    "  Marysia,  it  seems  to  me  as    if   something    had 
remained  there  beyond  the  sea." 

"  Our  fate  has  remained,  and  love  has  remained  there," 
answered  the  girl,  in  a  low  voice,  raising  her  eyes  as  if  in 
prayer. 

Meanwhile  it  had  grown  dark.  The  passengers  had 
begun  to  leave  the  deck ;  on  the  ship,  however,  there 
was  an  unusual  movement.  The  night  is  not  always 
calm  after  a  beautiful  sunset,  so  the  whistles  of  the 
officers  were  heard  continually,  and  sailors  were  hauling 
ropes. 

The  last  purple  gleams  were  quenched  on  the  sea, 
when  a  mist  rose  from  the  water ;  the  stars  twinkled  in 
the  sky,  and  then  vanished.  The  mist  thickened  before 
the  eye,  hiding  the  heavens,  the  horizon,  and  even  the 
vessel.  Only  the  smoke-stack  and  the  great  central  mast 
were  now  visible ;  the  figures  of  the  sailors  seemed,  from 
some  distance,  like  shadows.  An  hour  later,  all  was 
hidden  in  a  whitish  fog,  even  lanterns  hanging  on  the  mast- 
heads, even  sparks  flying  out  through  the  smoke-stack. 

The  vessel  did  not  rock  in  the  least ;  one  might  have 
said  that  the  sea  had  grown  feeble  and  had  flattened  out 
under  the  weight  of  the  fog. 

Night  had  come  down,  in  fact,  blind  and  silent.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  the  silence,  and  from  the  remotest 
rim  of  the  horizon,  were  heard  wonderful  rustles,  like  the 
heavy  breathing  of  some  giant  breast  nearing  the  vesseL 
At  times  it  seemed  as  if  some  one  were  calling  in  the 
darkness,  then  that  a  whole  distant  chorus  of  voices  were 
answering  with  infinite  sadness  and  complaining  tear- 
fully. Those  calls  were  running  from  darkness  and 
endlessness  toward  the  steamer. 

Sailors,  when  they  hear  these  sounds,  say  that  the  tem- 
pest is  calling  winds  out  of  hell. 


36  FOR  BREAD. 

In  fact  these  calls  grew  more  and  more  definite.  The 
captain,  wearing  a  rubber  coat  with  a  hood,  stood  on 
the  highest  bridge ;  an  officer  took  his  usual  place  before 
a  lighted  compass.  On  the  deck  was  no  passenger  now. 
Vavron  and  Marysia  had  gone  down  to  the  common 
cabin  also.  There  was  silence.  The  lamps,  fastened  in  a 
very  low  arch,  shone  with  a  gloomy  light  on  the  interior 
and  the  crowds  of  emigrants  sitting  beside  their  bunks 
near  the  walls.  The  cabin  was  large  but  gloomy,  as 
cabins  in  the  fourth  class  are  usually.  Its  ceiling  and 
walls  were  very  nearly  one,  therefore  those  bunks  at  the 
ends,  divided  by  partitions,  were  more  like  dark  dens  than 
beds,  and  the  entire  cabin  produced  the  impression  of  one 
immense  cellar.  The  air  in  it  was  filled  with  the  odor 
of  tarred  canvas,  ship  cables,  bilge  water,  and  dampness. 
Where  could  be  found  in  it  a  comparison  with  the  beauti- 
ful rooms  of  the  first  class  !  A  passage  of  even  two  weeks 
in  such  cabins  would  poison  lungs  with  bad  air,  bring 
a  sickly  pallor  to  faces,  and  cause  scurvy  frequently. 

Vavron  and  his  daughter  were  out  only  four  days ; 
still  if  one  were  to  compare  the  former  Marysia  of 
Lipintse,  the  healthy  and  blooming,  with  her  of  to-day, 
made  haggard  by  sickness,  he  would  not  have  known 
her.  Old  Vavron  too  had  grown  as  yellow  as  wax,  for 
the  first  days  neither  of  them  had  gone  on  deck.  They 
thought  it  forbidden.  Or  for  that  matter  did  they  know 
what  was  permitted  and  what  was  forbidden  ?  They 
had  hardly  dared  to  move ;  moreover  they  feared  to  leave 
their  things.  And  now  not  only  they,  but  all,  were  sitting 
with  their  effects.  -The  entire  steerage  was  strewn  with 
bundles  belonging  to  emigrants;  this  increased  the  dis- 
order and  gloomy  appearance.  Bedding,  clothing,  sup- 
plies of  provisions,  various  utensils,  and  tin  dishes,  mixed 
together,  were  thrown  in  smaller  or  larger  heaps  over  the 


FOR  BREAD.  37 

whole  floor.  Upon  them  were  sitting  emigrants,  nearly 
all  Germans.  Some  were  chewing  tobacco,  others  smok- 
ing pipes ;  the  rolls  of  smoke  struck  the  low  ceiling, 
and,  forming  a  long  streak,  obscured  lamp-light.  A 
number  of  children  were  crying  in  the  corners,  but  the 
usual  noise  had  ceased,  for  the  fog  had  penetrated  all 
with  a  sort  of  fear,  alarm,  and  gloom.  The  most  ex- 
perienced of  the  emigrants  knew  that  it  foreboded  a 
storm.  It  was  a  secret  at  that  time  to  no  one,  that  dan- 
ger was  coming,  and  perhaps  death  was  near.  Vavron 
and  Marysia  could  inform  themselves  in  nothing,  though 
when  any  one  opened  the  hatchway  for  a  moment  those 
distant,  ill-omened  voices,  coming  up  from  infinity,  were 
heard  with  distinctness. 

Both  were  sitting  in  the  depth  of  the  room,  in  its 
narrowest  portion,  therefore  not  far  from  the  prow  of 
the  steamer.  The  movement  there  was  disagreeable; 
hence  their  fellow-passengers  pushed  them  to  that  place. 
The  old  man  strengthened  himself  with  bread  brought 
from  Lipintse,  and  the  girl,  who  disliked  to  do  nothing, 
braided  her  hair  for  the  night. 

Gradually,  however,  the  general  silence,  interrupted 
only  by  the  crying  of  children,  began  to  astonish  the 
girl. 

"  Why  do  the  Germans  sit  to-night  so  quietly  ? "  in- 
quired she. 

"  Do  I  know  ?  "  answered  Vavron,  as  usual.  "  It  must 
be  that  they  have  a  holiday,  or  something." 

All  at  once  the  ship  trembled  mightily,  exactly  as  if  it 
had  shivered  before  something  terrible.  The  tin  dishes 
lying  around  rattled  gloomily,  the  flame  in  the  lamps 
danced  and  gleamed  up,  some  frightened  voices  inquired: 

"  What  is  it  ?     What  is  it  ? " 

But  there  was  no  answer.     A  second  shock,  weightier 


38  FOR  BREAD. 

than  the  first,  shook  the  steamer ;  the  prow  rose  suddenly, 
and  went  down  with  equal  suddenness,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  wave  struck  with  dull  force  the  round  window 
on  one  side. 

"A  storm  is  coming!"  whispered  Marysia  in  terror. 

Meanwhile  something  howled  around  the  steamer  like 
a  pack  of  wolves,  then  it  sounded  like  a  pine  wood  when 
a  whirlwind  is  breaking  it  suddenly.  The  wind  struck 
once  and  a  second  time ;  it  put  the  steamer  on  its 
side,  then  turned  it  around,  raised  it  aloft,  and  hurled 
it  into  the  depth.  The  rigging  creaked,  tin  vessels, 
bundles,  bags,  and  utensils  flew  along  the  floor,  hurled 
from  corner  to  corner.  Some  passengers  fell  flat ;  feathers 
from  pillows  flew  through  the  air,  and  the  lamp  chimneys 
jingled  mournfully. 

All  was  noise  and  uproar :  the  plashing  of  water  pour- 
ing in  on  the  deck,  the  struggling  of  the  ship,  the  scream- 
ing of  women,  and  the  weeping  of  children,  the  chasing 
for  effects,  and,  in  this  disturbance  and  chaos,  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  shrill  sound  of  whistles,  and,  from 
moment  to  moment,  the  dull  tramp  of  sailors  hurrying 
along  on  the  upper  deck. 

"  Virgin  of  Chenstohova  !  "  whispered  Marysia. 

The  prow  of  the  ship,  in  which  both  were  sitting,  shot 
into  the  air,  and  then  went  down  as  if  frantic.  Though 
Vavron  and  Marysia  held  to  the  sides  of  their  plank 
berths,  they  were  thrown  so  that  at  moments  they  struck 
the  ceiling.  The  roar  of  the  billows  increased  ;  the  groans 
of  the  deck  grew  so  piercing  that  it  seemed  as  though  beams 
and  planks  would  burst  in  with  a  crash  any  moment. 

"Hold  on,  Marysia!"  shouted  Vavron,  trying  to  out- 
shout  the  roar  of  the  tempest ;  but  fear  soon  closed  his 
throat,  and  those  of  others.  Children  stopped  crying; 
women  stopped  screaming;  all  breasts  breathed  only 


FOR  BREAD.  39 

hurriedly,  and  hands  held  with  effort   to  various  fixed 
objects. 

The  rage  of  the  tempest  rose  increasingly.  The  ele- 
ments were  unchained  ;  the  fog  thickened  with  darkness, 
the  clouds  with  water,  the  whirlwind  with  foam  ;  billows 
struck  the  ship  as  if  they  had  been  sent  from  cannon, 
they  hurled  it  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  from  the 
clouds  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  At  moments  the  foam- 
ing summits  of  waves  passed  over  the  whole  length  of 
the  steamer ;  gigantic  masses  of  water  seethed  in  one 
awful  disorder. 

The  oil  lamps  in  the  room  began  to  quench.  It  became 
darker  and  darker ;  it  seemed  to  Vavron  and  Marysia  that 
the  darkness  of  death  was  approaching. 

"  Marysia ! "  began  the  man,  with  a  broken  voice,  for 
breath  failed  him.  "  Marysia,  forgive  me  for  delivering 
thee  to  death.  Our  last  hour  has  come.  We  shall  not 
look  again  on  the  world  with  our  sinful  eyes.  We  shall 
have  no  confession,  no  anointment ;  we  are  not  to  lie  in 
the  earth,  but  go  from  the  water  to  the  terrible  judgment, 
poor  girl!" 

And  while  he  was  speaking  thus,  Marysia  understood 
that  there  was  no  rescue.  Various  thoughts  flew  through 
her  head,  and  something  called  in  her  soul,  — 

"  Yasko,  Yasko,  my  heart's  love,  dost  thou  hear  me  in 
Lipintse  ? " 

Terrible  sorrow  pressed  her  heart,  and  she  sobbed 
aloud.  The  sobbing  filled  the  room  where  all  were  as 
silent  as  if  at  a  funeral.  One  voice  called  out  from  a 
corner :  "  Still ! "  but  stopped,  as  if  frightened  by  its  own 
sound.  Then  a  lamp  chimney  fell  to  the  floor,  and  the 
flame  went  out.  It  was  still  darker.  The  alarm  of 
silence  reigned  everywhere,  when  Vavron's  voice  was 
heard  suddenly  in  the  silence,  — 


40  FOR  BREAD. 

"  Kyrie  eleison  ! " 

"  Chryste  eleison,"  responded  Marysia,  sobbing. 

w  Christ  listen  to  us  !" 

"  Father  in  heaven,  God,  have  mercy  on  us ! "  said  the 
two,  repeating  the  Litany. 

In  the  dark  room  the  voice  of  an  old  man,  and  re- 
sponses, broken  by  sobbing,  coming  from  a  girl  sounded 
with  wonderful  solemnity.  Some  of  the  emigrants  un- 
covered their  heads.  Gradually  the  girl's  weeping  ceased, 
the  voices  grew  calmer,  clearer;  outside  the  tempest 
howled  a  response  to  them. 

All  at  once  a  scream  was  heard  among  those  who  were 
standing  nearer  the  exit.  A  wave  had  beaten  the  door  in 
and  rushed  to  the  cabin  ;  the  water  flowed  to  every  cor- 
ner with  a  plashing;  women  began  to  scream  and  save 
themselves  on  the  bunks.  It  seemed  to  all  that  the  end 
had  come. 

After  a  while  an  officer  on  duty,  all  wet  and  red-faced, 
entered  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand.  He  pacified  the 
women  with  a  few  words,  saying  that  the  water  had  come 
only  by  accident ;  afterward  he  added,  that  as  the  vessel 
was  on  the  open  sea  there  was  no  great  danger.  In  fact 
an  hour  passed,  two  hours.  The  tempest  raged  more  and 
more  madly.  The  vessel  groaned,  went  down  prow  fore- 
most ;  the  deck  sank ;  it  lay  on  one  side,  —  but  the  vessel 
did  not  sink.  People  were  quieted  a  little ;  some  went  to 
sleep.  Again  a  number  of  hours  passed;  through  the 
upper,  grated  window  a  gray  light  broke  in.  Day  came 
on  the  ocean,  pale,  as  if  frightened,  gloomy,  dark ;  but  it 
brought  a  certain  hope  and  solace. 

When  Vavron  and  Marysia  had  said  all  the  prayers 
that  they  had  in  their  memories,  they  climbed  up  to  their 
plank  beds  and  fell  asleep,  soundly. 

They  were  roused  only  by  the  sound  of  the  bell  calling 


FOR  BREAD.  41 

to  breakfast.  But  they  could  not  eat.  Their  heads  felt 
as  heavy  as  if  they  had  been  leaden ;  the  old  man  was 
worse  still  than  the  girl.  In  his  benumbed  brain  nothing 
could  fix  itself.  The  German  who  persuaded  him  to  go 
to  America  had  told  him,  it  is  true,  that  he  must  cross 
water ;  but  he  had  never  supposed  it  such  a  great  water 
that  he  would  have  to  sail  so  many  days  and  nights  on 
it.  He  had  thought  that  he  would  cross  on  a  scow,  as 
he  had  crossed  water  more  than  once  in  his  lifetime.  If 
he  had  known  that  the  sea  was  so  enormous,  he  would 
have  remained  in  Lipintse.  Besides,  one  other  thought 
struggled  in  him  unquietly :  had  he  not  given  to  damna- 
tion his  own  soul  and  the  soul  of  his  daughter  ?  Was  it 
not  a  sin  for  a  Catholic  from  Lipintse  to  tempt  the  Lord 
God,  and  put  himself  into  an  abyss,  over  which  he  was 
sailing  now  the  fifth  day  to  another  shore,  if  in  general 
there  was  any  shore  on  the  other  side  ?  His  doubts  and 
fears  had  seven  days  more  of  increase  to  them. 

The  storm  raged  forty-eight  hours  longer,  then  it  went 
down  in  some  fashion.  Vavron  and  Marysia  made  bold 
to  go  out  on  deck  again;  but  when  they  saw  rolls  of 
water  rocking  yet,  black,  and,  as  it  were,  enraged,  those 
mountains  advancing  against  the  ship,  and  those  bottom- 
less, moving  valleys,  again  they  thought  that  only  the 
hand  of  God,  or  some  power  not  of  man,  could  save  them. 

At  last  it  became  perfectly  clear.  But  day  followed 
day,  and  before  the  ship  nothing  was  visible  except 
always  water  and  water  without  end,  at  one  time  green, 
at  another  blue,  and  mingling  with  the  sky.  On  that  sky 
passed  at  times,  high  up,  small,  bright  clouds,  which,  grow- 
ing red  in  the  evening,  laid  themselves  to  sleep  in  the  dis- 
tant west.  The  ship  pursued  these  clouds  over  the  water. 
Vavron  thought  that  perhaps  in  truth  the  sea  did  not  end 
anywhere,  but  he  took  courage  and  resolved  to  ask. 


42  FOR   BREAD. 

Once  he  took  off  his  cap  and,  bowing  submissively  to  a 
passing  sailor,  inquired,  — 

"  Great,  mighty  lord,  shall  we  go  quickly  to  the  end  of 
the  voyage  ? " 

Oh,  wonder !  the  sailor  did  not  snort  with  laughter,  but 
stopped  and  listened.  On  his  red  face  cut  by  the  wind 
was  to  be  recognized  the  working  of  memory,  and  of  cer- 
tain recollections  which  could  not  arrange  themselves  in 
conscious  thought  at  first.  After  a  while  he  asked, — 

"Was?" 

"  Shall  we  come  to  land  soon,  great,  mighty  lord  ?" 

"  Two  days,  two  days,"  repeated  the  sailor,  with  diffi- 
culty, holding  up  at  the  same  time  two  fingers. 

"  I  thank  humbly." 

"  Whence  are  ye  ? " 

"  From  Lipintse." 

"  What  is  that  Lipintse  ? " 

Marysia,  who  came  up  during  the  talk,  blushed  greatly, 
but  raising  her  timid  eyes  on  the  sailor,  she  said,  with 
that  thin  little  voice  with  which  village  girls  speak,  — 

"  We  are  from  Poznan." 

The  sailor  looked  thoughtfully  at  a  bronze  nail  in  the 
bulwark ;  then  at  the  girl,  at  her  hair,  bright  as  flax,  and 
something  as  it  were  emotion  appeared  on  his  weather- 
beaten  face.  After  a  while  he  said  seriously : 

"  I  have  been  in  Dantzig  —  I  understand  Polish  —  I  am 
a  Kashub l  —  your  brother ;  but  that  was  long  ago !  Jetzt 
bin  ich  Deutsch." 

When  he  had  said  this,  he  raised  the  end  of  the  rope 
which  he  had  held  before  in  his  hand,  turned  away,  and 
calling  out  in  sailor  fashion :  "  Ho !  ho !  o  ! "  he  began  to 
draw  it. 

1  The  Kashubs,  a  variety  of  the  Poles,  live  southwest  of  Dantzig ;  they 
number  between  one  and  two  hundred  thousand ;  their  language  differs 
somewhat  from  the  ordinary  Polish. 


FOR  BREAD.  43 

From  that  time,  whenever  Vavron  and  Marysia  were 
on  deck,  he  smiled  in  a  friendly  manner  at  Marysia 
when  he  saw  them.  They  were  greatly  delighted,  for 
they  had  a  living  soul  inclined  to  them  on  this  German 
steamer.  But  the  journey  now  was  not  to  last  long. 
The  next  morning,  when  they  went  out  on  deck,  a  won- 
derful sight  struck  their  eyes.  They  saw  something  danc- 
ing on  the  sea,  and  when  the  ship  approached  that  object, 
they  saw  that  it  was  a  great  red  cask  moved  gently  by  the 
waves ;  in  the  distance  was  a  second  like  it,  and  a  third,  and 
a  fourth.  The  air  and  the  water  were  somewhat  misty,  but 
not  greatly  so,  besides  it  was  silvery  and  mild ;  the  surface 
of  the  water  was  smooth,  noiseless,  and,  as  far  as  the  eye 
reached,  more  and  more  casks  were  dancing  on  the  water. 
Whole  clouds  of  white  birds  with  black  wings  were  flying 
behind  the  ship,  crying  and  whistling.  On  the  deck  there 
was  an  uncommon  movement.  The  sailors  had  put  on 
fresh  clothing  ;  some  were  washing  the  deck  ;  others  were 
cleaning  the  brass  fastenings  of  the  bulwarks  and  the 
windows ;  on  the  mast  was  hung  out  one  flag,  and  at  the 
stern  of  the  steamer  another,  a  larger  one. 

Animation  and  delight  had  seized  all  the  passengers ; 
everything  living  had  run  out  on  the  deck :  some  brought 
up  their  bags  and  began  to  strap  them. 

Seeing  all  this,  Marysia  said,  — 

"  Surely  we  are  coming  to  land." 

A  more  cheerful  spirit  entered  her  and  Vavron.  At 
last  Sandy  Hook  showed  itself  on  the  west,  and  another 
island  with  a  great  edifice  standing  in  the  centre ;  in 
the  distance  was  a  condensed  fog,  as  it  were  a  cloud, 
as  it  were  a  collection  of  smoke,  stretched  in  strips  above 
the  sea,  indefinite,  distant,  dim,  formless.  At  sight  of 
this  there  was  a  great  murmur;  all  pointed  to  it;  the 
steamer,  on  its  part,  whistled  shrilly,  as  if  from  delight. 


44  FOR   BREAD. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  inquired  Vavron. 

"  New  York,"  said  the  Kashub,  who  was  standing  at 
his  side. 

Now  the  columns  of  smoke  seemed  to  separate,  to  be 
lost,  and  on  the  background  on  which  they  had  been, 
in  proportion  as  the  steamer  cleaved  the  silvery  water, 
appeared  the  outlines  of  houses,  roofs,  chimneys ;  pointed 
spires  were  denned  more  clearly  on  the  blue ;  with  the 
spires  were  the  tall  chimneys  of  factories,  over  the  chim- 
neys columns  of  smoke  spreading  in  soft,  bushy  forms 
above.  Below,  in  front  of  the  city,  a  forest  of  masts,  and 
on  the  points  of  them  thousands  of  flags  which  the  breeze 
moved  as  if  they  were  flowers  on  a  meadow.  The  steamer 
drew  nearer  and  nearer.  The  fair  city  rose  as  if  from 
under  the  water.  Great  delight  and  astonishment  seized 
Vavron ;  he  removed  his  cap,  opened  his  lips  and  gazed ; 
he  gazed,  and  then  said  to  the  girl, — 

"  Marysia ! " 

"0  for  God's  sake!" 

"Dost  see?" 

"I  see!" 

"Dost  wonder?" 

"  I  wonder." 

But  Vavron  not  only  wondered,  he  desired.  Seeing  the 
green  shores  on  both  sides  of  the  bay,  and  the  dark  lines 
of  groves,  he  continued,  — 

"  Well,  praise  be  to  God  !  If  they  would  only  give  me 
land  right  away,  here  near  the  city,  with  that  meadow,  it 
would  be  close  to  the  market.  The  fair  would  come  :  a 
man  might  drive  a  cow,  drive  a  pig,  and  sell  them.  I 
see  that  people  are  here  as  numerous  as  poppy  seeds. 
In  Poland  I  was  a  peasant,  but  here  I  shall  be  a 
lord." 

At  that  moment  the  splendid  National  Park  deployed 


FOR  BREAD.  45 

before  his  eyes  in  all  its  length,  and  Vavron,  when  he  saw 
those  groups  and  clusters  of  trees,  said  again,  — 

"  I  will  bow  down  low  to  the  great,  mighty  commissioner 
of  the  Government,  —  I  will  talk  to  him  cunningly  to  give 
me  even  sixty  acres  of  this  forest,  and  afterward  an  addi- 
tion. If  an  inheritance,  then  an  inheritance.  I  can  send 
a  man  with  wood  in  the  morning  to  the  city.  Glory  to 
the  Highest !  for  I  see  that  the  German  did  not  deceive 
me." 

Lordship  smiled  somehow  at  Marysia  also,  and  she 
knew  not  why  that  song  came  to  her  head  which  brides 
sang  to  bridegrooms  at  weddings  in  Lipintse,  — 

"  What  sort  of  bridegroom  art  thou  ? 
Thy  whole  outfit  is  a  cap  and  a  coat." 

Had  she,  perhaps,  the  design  of  singing  something 
similar  to  poor  Yasko,  when  he  should  come  for  her  and 
she  should  be  an  heiress  ? 

Now  a  little  steamer  from  the  quarantine  flew  toward 
the  great  one.  Four  or  five  men  came  on  board.  Conver- 
sation and  outcries  set  in.  Soon  another  steamer  came 
up  from  the  city  itself,  bringing  agents  of  hotels  and 
boarding-houses,  guides,  money-changers,  railroad  agents ; 
all  these  shouted  in  heaven-piercing  voices,  crowding  and 
circling  around  the  whole  deck.  Vavron  and  Marysia 
had  fallen,  as  it  were,  into  a  vortex,  and  could  not  tell 
what  to  do. 

The  Kashub  advised  the  old  man  to  change  his  money, 
and  promised  not  to  let  people  cheat  him.  Vavron  fol- 
lowed his  advice.  He  received  forty-seven  dollars  in 
silver  for  what  he  had.  Before  all  this  was  finished, 
the  steamer  had  approached  the  city  so  nearly  that  not 
only  the  houses  could  be  seen,  but  people  on  the  streets. 
They  passed  every  moment  larger  or  smaller  vessels ;  at 


46  FOR  BREAD. 

last  they  reached  the  wharf  and  pushed  into  a  narrow 
dock  of  the  port. 

The  journey  was  ended. 

People  poured  out  from  the  steamer  like  bees  from  a 
hive.  Along  the  narrow  gangway,  from  the  deck  to  the 
shore,  flowed  a  many-colored  throng ;  the  first  class,  then 
the  second,  and  at  last  the  steerage  passengers,  bearing 
their  effects. 

When  Vavron  and  Marysia,  pushed  by  the  throng, 
approached  the  gangway,  they  found  the  Kashub  near 
them.  He  pressed  Vavron's  hand  firmly,  and  said,  — 

"  Bruder !  I  wish  luck  1  and  to  thee,  girl,  God  aid  thee ! " 

"  The  Lord  God  repay  ! "  answered  both ;  but  there  was 
no  time  for  further  farewell.  The  crowd  urged  them 
along  the  gangway,  and  in  a  moment  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  broad  custom-house  building. 

The  custom-house  officer,  dressed  in  gray  overcoat  with 
a  silver  star,  felt  of  their  packages,  then  called,  "All 
right!"  and  pointed  to  the  exit.  They  went  out,  and 
found  themselves  on  the  street. 

"  Tatulo !  but  what  shall  we  do  ? " 

"We  must  wait.  The  German  said  that  a  commis- 
sioner would  come  from  the  Government  and  inquire  for 
us." 

They  stood  at  a  wall  waiting  for  a  commissioner ; 
meanwhile  the  uproar  of  an  unknown  and  immense  city 
surrounded  them.  They  had  never  seen  anything  like 
it.  The  streets  were  straight,  broad,  and  on  them  were 
crowds  of  people,  as  in  time  of  a  fair;  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  were  carriages,  omnibuses,  freight  wagons. 
Eound  about  sounded  a  strange,  unknown  tongue;  the 
shouts  of  workmen  and  hucksters  were  heard.  From 
moment  to  moment  entirely  black  people  pushed  past; 
they  had  big  woolly  heads.  At  sight  of  these  Vavron 


FOR  BREAD.  47 

and  Marysia  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  themselves, 
piously.  Something  marvellous  to  them  was  that  city, 
so  noisy,  so  full  of  voices,  so  full  of  whistling  of  locomo- 
tives, clatter  of  wagons,  and  shouting  of  men.  All  people 
there  were  running  as  quickly  as  if  hunting  down  some 
one,  or  fleeing  from  some  one,  and  besides  what  swarms 
of  them  !  What  strange  faces ;  now  black,  now  olive  color, 
now  reddish  !  Just  where  they  were  standing  near  the 
harbor  the  greatest  activity  reigned ;  from  some  steamers 
they  were  unloading  bales ;  at  other  steamers  they  were 
putting  them  in.  Wagons  arrived  every  moment ;  trucks 
clattered  on  cross-walks;  a  hurly-burly  and  an  uproar 
raged  as  in  a  sawmill. 

In  this  way  passed  one  hour  and  a  second ;  they  were 
standing  at  the  wall  waiting  for  the  commissioner. 

A  strange  sight  on  the  American  shore,  in  New  York, 
was  that  Polish  peasant,  with  long  hair  growing  gray,  in 
his  square-topped  cap,  with  lamb-skin  body,  that  girl 
from  Lipintse,  in  a  dark-blue  jacket,  and  with  beads 
around  her  neck. 

But  strangers  passed  without  even  looking  at  them. 
In  New  York,  people  wonder  at  no  face,  at  no  dress. 

Another  hour  passed  ;  the  sky  became  cloud-covered ; 
rain  fell,  mixed  with  snow ,  a  cold,  damp  wind  came  in 
from  the  sea. 

They  remained  waiting  for  the  commissioner. 

The  peasant  nature  was  patient;  but  something  in 
their  souls  began  to  grow  heavy. 

They  had  felt  lonely  on  the  steamer,  amid  strange 
people,  and  that  desert  of  water  had  been  terrible  and 
evil.  They  had  implored  God  to  conduct  them,  like 
wandering  children,  over  the  abysses  of  the  ocean.  They 
had  thought  that  if  once  they  could  put  foot  on  land 
their  misfortune  would  end.  Now  they  had  come ;  they 


48  FOR  BREAD. 

were  in  a  great  city ;  but  in  that  city,  in  the  uproar  of 
men,  they  felt  all  at  once  that  it  was  lonelier  still,  and 
more  terrible  than  ever  it  had  been  on  the  steamer. 

The  commissioner  was  not  coming.  What  would  they 
do  if  he  should  not  come  at  all,  if  the  German  had 
deceived  them  ? 

The  poor  peasant  hearts  quivered  with  dread  at  the 
thought.  What  would  they  do?  They  would  just 
perish. 

Meanwhile  the  wind  passed  through  their  clothing, 
the  rain  wet  them. 

"  Marysia,  art  thou  not  cold  ?  "  inquired  Vavron. 

"  Cold,  tatulo,"  answered  the  girl. 

The  city  clock  struck  another  hour;  it  was  growing 
dark  in  the  world.  The  movement  at  the  wharf  ceased ; 
street  lamps  were  lighted;  one  sea  of  gleaming  lights 
flashed  through  the  city.  Laborers  from  the  wharf,  sing- 
ing with  hoarse  voices,  strolled  along  in  smaller  or  larger 
groups  into  the  city.  Gradually  the  street  was  deserted 
completely.  The  custom-house  was  closed. 

They  remained  waiting  for  the  commissioner. 

At  last  night  came,  and  it  was  quiet  at  the  water,  save 
that,  from  time  to  time,  the  dark  smoke-stacks  of  ferry- 
boats belched  out  bundles  of  sparks  with  a  hiss,  which 
died  in  the  darkness,  or  a  wave  splashed,  striking  the 
stone  embankment.  At  times  was  heard  the  song  of  a 
drunken  sailor  returning  to  his  ship.  The  light  of  the 
lamps  became  pale  in  the  fog.  They  waited. 

Even  if  they  had  had  no  wish  to  wait,  where  could 
they  go  ?  What  were  they  to  do  ?  Where  were  they  to 
turn  ?  Where  were  they  to  lay  their  wearied  heads  ? 
The  cold  pierced  them  more  sharply;  hunger  tortured 
them.  If  they  had  even  a  roof  above  their  heads,  for 
they  were  wet  to  the  skin. 


FOR  BREAD.  49 

Ah !  the  commissioner  had  not  come,  and  he  would  not 
come,  for  there  was  no  such  commissioner.  The  German 
was  an  agent  of  the  transportation  company ;  he  took  a 
percentage  for  each  person,  and  cared  for  nothing  more. 

Vavron  felt  that  the  legs  were  tottering  under  him, 
that  some  gigantic  weight  was  crushing  him,  that  God's 
anger  must  be  hanging  over  him. 

He  suffered  and  waited  as  only  a  peasant  can.  The 
voice  of  the  girl,  shivering  from  cold,  roused  him  at  last 
from  his  torpor. 

"  Tatulo." 

"  Be  quiet.     There  is  no  mercy  above  us ! " 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  Lipintse." 

"  Go  drown  thyself  —  " 

"  0  God,  God ! "  whispered  Marysia,  quietly. 

Grief  seized  Vavron. 

"  Oh,  orphan,  poor  girl !  May  God  take  pity  even  on 
thee ! " 

But  she  heard  him  no  longer.  Leaning  her  head 
against  the  wall,  she  closed  her  eyes.  Sleep  came, 
broken,  oppressive,  feverish.  And  in  a  dream,  as  it  were 
a  picture  in  a  frame,  Lipintse,  and  as  it  were  the  song  of 
Yasko,  the  groom,  — 

"  What  bride  art  thou  ? 
Thy  whole  outfit 
Is  a  garland  of  rue." 

The  first  rays  of  daylight  in  the  port  of  New  York  fell 
on  the  water,  the  masts,  and  the  custom-house  building. 

In  that  gray  light  one  might  have  distinguished  under 
a  wall  two  sleeping  figures  with  pallid,  bluish  faces ;  they 
were  covered  with  snow,  and  were  as  still  as  if  dead. 
But  in  the  book  of  their  misfortune  only  the  first  leaves 
had  been  turned.  We  will  read  the  others  later  on. 

4 


50  FOR  BREAD. 

IL 

IN  NEW  YOKK. 

PASSING  in  New  York  from  wide  Broadway  toward  the 
wharf,  in  the  direction  of  Chatham  Square,  and  cross- 
ing a  number  of  adjacent  streets,  the  traveller  comes 
upon  a  part  of  the  city  which  increases  in  poverty, 
squalor,  and  gloom.  The  narrow  streets  become  ever 
narrower.  The  houses,  built,  it  may  be,  even  by  the 
Dutch  colonists,  have  cracked  and  bent  over  in  course 
of  time ;  the  roofs  on  them  have  sagged,  the  plaster 
fallen  in  great  part  from  the  walls,  and  the  walls  them- 
selves sunk  into  the  earth,  till  the  tops  of  the  basement 
windows  are  barely  above  the  street  pavement.  A 
marvellous  crookedness  is  present  there,  instead  of  the 
favorite  straight  lines  of  America ;  roofs  and  walls,  stand- 
ing out  of  line,  crowd  together  and  rise,  one  above 
another,  showing  disordered  aggregations  of  shaggy  roofs. 

Because  of  its  position  near  the  water,  the  puddles  in 
the  street-ruts  in  this  part  of  the  city  hardly  ever  dry, 
and  the  small  squares,  securely  closed,  are  like  little 
ponds  filled  with  thick,  black,  stagnant  water.  The 
windows  of  the  tumble-down  houses  gaze  gloomily  into 
this  water,  the  foul  surface  of  which  is  varied  with 
scraps  of  paper  and  pasteboard,  bits  of  glass,  wood,  and 
pieces  of  tin  from  bales.  With  similar  fragments,  whole 
streets  are  covered,  or  rather  the  entire  layer  of  mud 
which  conceals  them.  Everywhere  are  visible  human 
misery,  dirt,  and  disorder. 

In  this  division  of  the  city  are  "  boarding-houses,"  or 
inns,  in  which,  for  two  dollars  a  week,  it  is  possible  to  find 
lodging  and  entire  maintenance ;  here  also  are  drinking 


FOR  BREAD.  51 

houses,  or  "  bar  rooms,"  in  which  whalers  find  every 
kind  of  rough  men  for  their  vessels ;  and  secret  agencies 
of  Venezuela,  Ecuador,  and  Brazil  persuade  people  to 
tropical  colonization,  and  obtain  a  respectable  number  of 
victims  for  the  yellow  fever ;  restaurants,  feeding  their 
guests  with  salt  meat,  rotten  oysters,  and  fish,  which 
surely  the  water  itself  brought  to  shore  ;  secret  places  for 
dice  playing ;  Chinese  laundries ;  various  refuges  for 
sailors  ;  finally  dens  of  crime,  hunger,  misery,  and  tears. 

Still  that  part  of  the  city  is  active ;  for  all  the  immi- 
grants who  cannot  find  even  a  temporary  place  in  the 
barracks  of  Castle  Garden,  and  who  wish  not,  or  are 
unable  to  go  to  the  so-called  "  work  houses,"  huddle 
together,  live  and  die  there.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may 
be  said,  that  if  immigrants  are  the  scum  of  European 
society,  the  inhabitants  of  these  retreats  are  the  scum  of 
immigration.  The  people  here  are  idle,  partly  through 
want  of  work,  and  partly  through  desire. 

Here  in  the  night-time  revolver  shots  are  heard  with 
sufficient  frequency,  shouts  for  help,  hoarse  screams  of 
rage,  drunken  songs,  or  the  howls  of  negroes  butting  their 
heads  -against  one  another.  Every  little  while  in  the 
daytime  whole  crowds  of  loafers,  in  torn  hats,  and  with 
pipes  between  their  teeth,  look  on  at  fist  battles,  betting 
meanwhile  from  one  to  five  cents  on  black  eyes.  White 
children  and  woolly  headed  little  negroes,  instead  of 
passing  their  time  at  school,  wander  through  the  streets, 
playing  with  pieces  of  ox  ribs,  or  looking  in  the  mud  for 
remnants  of  vegetables,  bananas,  or  lemons ;  destitute 
women  stretch  their  hands  to  a  better  dressed  passer-by, 
in  case  he  wanders  in  there. 

In  this  human  Gehenna  we  find  our  old  acquain- 
tances, Vavron  Toporek  and  Marysia,  his  daughter.  The 
"  inheritance "  which  they  had  hoped  for  was  a  dream, 


52  FOR  BREAD. 

and  like  a  dream  had  it  vanished ;  but  reality  presents 
itself  to  us  now  in  the  form  of  a  little  room  sunk  in  the 
earth,  having  one  window  with  broken  panes.  On  the 
walls  of  the  room  is  foul,  black  mould  with  streaks  of 
dampness ;  at  the  wall  stands  a  rusty  little  iron  stove 
with  holes  in  it,  and  a  three-legged  table ;  in  one  corner  a 
small  bundle  of  barley  straw  takes  the  place  of  a  bed. 

This  is  all.  Old  Vavron,  kneeling  before  the  stove,  is 
searching  in  the  cold  ashes  to  find  a  potato  somewhere, 
and  to  that  search  he  returns  now  in  vain  —  the  second 
day;  Marysia  is  sitting  on  the  straw  clasping  her  knees 
with  her  hands,  and  looking  at  the  floor  with  fixed  stare. 
The  girl  is  ill  and  emaciated.  She  is  the  same  Marysia, 
as  it  were:  but  her  cheeks,  once  blooming,  are  deeply 
sunken ;  her  complexion  has  grown  pallid  and  sickly, 
her  whole  face  as  if  smaller  than  before ;  her  eyes  are 
larger  and  staring.  On  her  face  the  effects  of  foul  air, 
gnawing  grief  and  vile  food  are  evident.  They  had  lived 
on  potatoes  only ;  but  for  two  days  potatoes  are  lacking. 
Now  they  know  not  what  to  do  or  how  to  exist  any 
longer.  It  is  now  the  third  month  that  they  have  lived 
on  this  street  and  inhabited  this  den  ;  their  money  is 
gone.  Old  Vavron  tried  to  find  work ;  but  no  one  under- 
stood even  what  he  wanted ;  he  went  to  the  wharf  to 
carry  packages  and  load  coal  into  ships ;  but  he  had  no 
wheelbarrow,  and,  moreover,  he  got  a  black  eye  right 
away ;  he  wanted  to  find  work  with  an  axe  in  building 
piers,  men  gave  him  a  black  eye  the  second  time.  Besides, 
what  sort  of  a  laborer  is  he  who  does  not  understand 
what  people  say  to  him  ?  Wherever  he  thrust  in  his 
hand,  to  whatever  he  wished  to  betake  himself,  whither- 
soever he  went,  people  laughed  him  out,  threw  him  out, 
pushed  him  out,  beat  him ;  consequently  he  found 
nothing ;  he  was  neither  able  to  earn  money  or  beg  it 


FOR  BREAD.  53 

from  any  source.  His  hair  whitened  from  gnawing  grief ; 
hope  was  exhausted,  and  hunger  began. 

In  his  own  country,  among  his  own  people,  were  he  to 
lose  everything,  were  disease  to  harass  him,  were  his 
children  to  drive  him  from  his  cottage,  he  would  need 
simply  to  take  a  staff  in  his  hand  and  stand  under  a 
cross  at  the  roadside,  or  at  the  door  of  some  church,  and 
sing:  "  0  God  the  merciful,  hear  Thou  my  cry  !"  A  rich 
man,  passing,  would  give  him  ten  coppers  ;  a  lady  would 
send  from  her  carriage  a  little  girl  with  money  in  her  rosy 
hand,  and  with  great  eyes  fixed  on  the  grandfather  (the 
beggar)  ;  a  peasant  would  give  a  loaf  of  bread ;  a  peasant 
woman,  a  bit  of  bacon,  —  and  he  might  live,  even  as  a  bird 
which  neither  ploughs  nor  sows.  Besides,  whenever  he 
stood  at  a  cross,  its  arms  would  be  over  his  head,  above 
that  the  heavens,  and  round  about  fields.  In  that  quiet 
of  the  country  the  Lord  God  would  hear  his  complaint. 
There,  in  that  city,  something  was  roaring  as  terribly 
as  in  an  enormous  machine ;  each  one,  rushing  straight- 
forward, looked  ahead  so  directly  that  no  man  saw 
another's  misfortune.  Dizziness  seized  the  brain ;  a 
man's  hands  fell ;  his  eyes  could  not  take  in  all  that 
thrust  itself  on  them,  nor  could  one  thought  catch 
another.  All  was  so  wonderful,  foreign,  repelling,  and 
scattering  that  the  man  who  could  not  turn  in  that 
whirl  was  shot  out  of  the  circle  and  broken,  like  an 
earthen  pot. 

"  Ei !  what  a  difference  !  There  in  quiet  Lipintse, 
Vavron  was  a  householder  and  a  counsellor ;  he  had  land, 
the  respect  of  people,  a  sure  spoonful  of  daily  food ;  on 
Sunday  he  went  out  before  the  altar  with  a  candle ;  but 
here  he  was  the  last  of  all,  he  was  like  a  dog  which  has 
wandered  into  a  strange  yard,  timid,  trembling,  curled  up, 
and  famished. 


54  FOR  BREAD. 

In  the  early  days  of  his  misfortune  memory  said  fre- 
quently, "  It  was  better  in  Lipintse."  His  conscience 
cried  to  him, "  Vavron,  why  hast  thou  deserted  Lipintse  ? " 
Why  ?  —  because  God  had  deserted  him.  The  man  would 
bear  his  cross,  would  suffer,  if  to  that  way  of  the  cross 
there  was  an  end  in  any  place ;  but  he  knew  well  that 
every  day  would  bring  a  still  harder  trial,  and  every 
morning  the  sun  would  shine  upon  still  greater  misery 
for  him  and  Marysia.  What  then  ?  Was  he  to  twist  a 
rope,  say  an  Our  Father,  and  hang  himself  ?  The  man 
would  not  wink  an  eye  in  face  of  death  ;  but  what  would 
happen  to  his  daughter  ?  When  he  thought  of  all  this, 
he  felt  that  not  only  had  God  deserted  him,  but  that  his 
mind  was  deserting  him.  There  was  no  light  in  that 
darkness  which  he  saw  before  him,  and  he  could  not 
even  name  the  greatest  pain  that  he  felt. 

The  yearning  for  Lipintse  was  that  greatest  pain.  It 
tortured  him  night  and  day,  and  tortured  him  the  more 
terribly  because  he  knew  not  what  he  needed,  or  whither 
the  peasant  soul  in  him  was  tearing,  or  why  that  soul  was 
howling  from  torture  ;  but  he  needed  the  pine  wood,  the 
fields,  and  the  cottages  thatched  with  straw,  and  lords 
and  peasants,  and  priests,  and  all  that  over  which  a  part 
of  his  native  sky  was  hanging,  and  to  which  the  heart 
becomes  so  attached  that  it  cannot  tear  itself  away, 
and  if  it  is  torn  away  it  bleeds.  The  man  felt  that 
something  was  crushing  him  into  the  earth.  At  moments 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  seize  his  hair  and  smash  his 
head  against  the  wall,  or  throw  himself  on  the  ground, 
or  howl  like  a  dog  on  a  chain,  or  call  as  if  in  frenzy  — 
whom  ?  — he  knew  not  himself.  Now  he  is  just  bending 
under  this  unknown  burden,  just  falling,  and  here  the 
strange  city  roars  and  roars.  He  groans  and  calls  Jesus  ; 
but  there  is  no  crucifix  there ;  no  man  answers ;  the  city 


FOR  BREAD.  55 

roars  and  roars  ;  and  on  the  straw  sits  his  daughter  with 
eyes  staring  at  the  floor,  —  famishing  and  suffering  in  si- 
lence. A  wonderful  thing !  —  he  and  the  girl  were  always 
together,  but  often  they  did  not  speak  one  word  to  each 
other  for  days.  They  lived  as  if  greatly  offended.  It  was 
evil  and  oppressive  for  them  to  live  in  that  way,  but  of 
what  could  they  speak  ?  It  is  better  not  to  touch  fes- 
tering sores.  What  could  they  talk  about  except  this,  — 
that  there  was  no  money  in  the  pocket,  no  potatoes  in 
the  stove,  no  counsel  in  the  head. 

Assistance  they  got  from  no  one.  .Very  many  Poles 
inhabit  New  York,  but  none  who  are  prosperous  live 
near  Chatham  Square. 

On  the  second  week  after  the  arrival  they  made  the 
acquaintance,  it  is  true,  of  two  Polish  families,  —  one  from 
Silesia,  the  other  from  near  Poznan  itself ;  but  those  were 
dying  of  hunger  a  long  time.  The  Silesians  had  lost  two 
children  already ;  the  third  child  was  sick,  still  for  two 
weeks  it  slept  under  an  arch  of  a  bridge  with  its  parents, 
and  all  lived  only  on  what  they  found  on  the  streets. 
Later  they  were  taken  to  a  hospital,  and  it  was  unknown 
what  had  happened  them.  Equal  evil  came  to  the  second 
family,  and  even  greater,  for  the  father  drank.  Marysia 
saved  the  woman  while  she  could ;  but  now  she  herself 
needed  rescue. 

She  and  her  father  might  have  betaken  themselves  to 
the  Polish  church  at  Hoboken.  The  priest  would  at  least 
have  informed  others  concerning  them;  but  did  they  know 
that  there  was  any  Polish  church,  or  Polish  priest ;  or 
could  they  speak  with  any  one,  or  inquire  of  any  one  ?  So 
every  cent  expended  was  for  them,  as  it  were,  a  step 
toward  the  abyss  of  misery. 

They  were  sitting  at  that  moment,  he  at  the  little  stove, 
she  on  the  straw.  One  hour  and  a  second  hour  passed. 


56  FOR  BREAD. 

In  the  room  it  had  become  darker  and  darker ;  for,  though 
it  was  midday,  mist  had  risen  from  the  water,  as  is  usual 
in  spring-time,  a  dense,  penetrating  mist.  Though  it  was 
warm  out  of  doors,  both  were  trembling  from  cold  in  that 
room;  at  last  Vavron  lost  hope  of  finding  anything  in 
the  ashes.  „. 

"  Marysia,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  endure  this  any  longer, 
and  neither  canst  thou ;  I  will  go  to  the  water  to  find 
driftwood;  we  will  heat  up  the  stove  even,  and  I  may 
find  something  to  eat." 

She  made  no  answer,  so  he  went.  He  had  learned 
already  to  go  to  the  river  and  fish  out  bits  of  boards 
from  boxes  and  crates  which  the  water  brought  to  shore. 
So  do  all  who  have  no  means  to  buy  coal.  He  was  cuffed 
frequently  while  doing  this,  but  frequently  not ;  some- 
times he  happened  to  find  a  thing  to  eat, —  certain  rem- 
nants of  spoiled  vegetables  thrown  out  of  ships ;  and  at  that 
occupation,  when  he  went  about  in  the  mist  and  sought 
what  he  had  not  lost,  he  forgot  at  moments  his  mis- 
fortune, and  the  grief  which  hunted  him  more  than  all. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  water ;  and  because  it  was 
"  lunch  "  time  there  circled  about  the  shore  only  a  few 
little  boys,  who  began,  it  is  true,  to  cry  at  the  man,  throw 
black  mud  and  mussels  at  him ;  but  these  did  not  hurt. 
Small  boards  enough  were  dancing  on  the  water,  one 
wave  brought  them  in,  another  took  them  out  to  deep 
places.  Soon  he  had  captured  enough  of  them. 

Bunches  of  green  stuff  of  some  sort  were  floating  on 
the  water;  perhaps  there  was  something  in  these  fit  to 
eat ;  but,  being  light,  they  did  not  come  to  shore,  hence  he 
could  not  get  them.  The  boys  threw  out  lines  and  cap- 
tured them  in  that  way ;  he,  having  no  line,  merely 
looked  on  greedily  and  waited  till  the  boys  went  away, 
then  he  searched  the  remnants  and  ate  what  seemed  to 


FOR  BREAD.  57 

him  fit  to  be  eaten.     He  did  not  remember  that  Marysia 
had  eaten  nothing. 

But  fate  was  to  smile  on  him.  On  the  way  home  he 
met  a  large  wagon  with  potatoes  which  had  stuck  fast  in 
a  rut  while  going  to  the  wharf.  Vavron  seized  the 
spokes  straightway  and  pushed  the  wheel,  together  with 
the  teamster.  The  work  was  so  hard  that  it  made  his 
back  ache ;  but  at  last  the  horses  gave  a  sudden  pull, 
the  wagon  came  out,  and  because  it  was  loosely  laden  a 
good  number  of  potatoes  fell  to  the  mud  from  it.  The 
teamster  did  not  even  think  of  collecting  them ;  he 
thanked  Vavron  for  his  assistance,  cried  "  Get  up ! "  to 
the  horses,  and  drove  on. 

Vavron  rushed  immediately  for  the  potatoes,  gathered 
them  greedily  with  trembling  hands,  hid  them  in  his 
breast,  and  straightway  a  better  feeling  entered  his 
heart.  In  hunger  a  morsel  of  bread  found  seems  a  for- 
tune discovered;  hence  the  man,  while  returning  home, 
muttered,  — 

"  Well,  thanks  be  to  God,  the  Highest,  that  He  looked 
down  on  our  misfortune.  There  is  wood,  the  girl  will 
make  a  fire ;  there  are  potatoes  enough  for  two  meals. 
The  Lord  God  is  merciful !  There  will  be  more  cheer  in 
the  room  right  away.  The  girl  has  not  eaten  for  a  day 
and  a  half ;  she  will  be  delighted.  The  Lord  God  is 
merciful!" 

Thus  talking  to  himself,  he  carried  the  wood  in  one 
hand,  with  the  other  he  felt  every  moment  to  be  sure 
that  the  potatoes  were  not  falling  from  his  bosom.  He 
bore  a  great  treasure ;  hence  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven 
and  muttered,  — 

"  I  thought  to  myself :  I  will  steal !  and  here,  without 
stealing,  they  fell  from  the  wagon.  We  have  not  eaten, 
but  we  shall  eat.  The  Lord  God  is  merciful !  Marysia 


58  FOR  BREAD. 

will  rise  from  the  straw  right  away  when  she  knows  that 
I  have  potatoes." 

Meanwhile  Marysia  had  not  left  the  straw  from  the 
time  that  her  father  had  gone  out.  Formerly  when 
Vavron  had  brought  wood  in  the  morning,  she  would  heat 
the  stove,  bring  water,  eat  what  there  was,  and  then  gaze 
for  whole  hours  at  the  fire.  She,  too,  had  tried  to  find 
work.  They  had  even  hired  her  in  a  boarding-house 
to  wash  dishes  and  sweep;  but  since  they  could  not 
talk  to  her,  and  because  she  did  her  work  badly,  not 
understanding  her  employers,  they  sent  her  away  in  two 
days.  After  that  she  looked  for  nothing  and  found 
nothing.  She  sat  whole  days  in  the  house,  afraid  to  go 
out  in  the  street,  for  drunken  sailors  would  attack  her 
there.  Through  this  idleness  she  was  still  more  unhappy. 
Homesickness  devoured  her  as  rust  eats  out  iron.  She 
was  even  more  unhappy  than  Vavron,  for  besides  hunger, 
and  all  those  sufferings  which  she  endured,  besides  the 
conviction  that  there  was  no  help,  no  salvation,  no  to- 
morrow, to  the  terrible  yearning  for  Lipintse  was  added 
the  thought  of  Yasko,  the  groom.  He  had  promised  her, 
it  is  true,  and  said,  "  Whithersoever  thou  turnest,  will  I 
turn ; "  but  she  went  away  to  be  an  heiress  and  a  lady, 
and  now  how  all  had  changed,— 

He  was  a  young  man,  working  at  a  great  house ;  he  had 
his  inherited  share  in  the  village  land:  and  she  had 
become  as  poor,  and  as  hungry,  as  a  mouse  in  the  church 
of  Lipintse.  Would  he  come,  and  even  should  he  come, 
would  he  take  her  to  his  bosom,  would  he  say  to  her, 
Poor  girl,  beloved  of  my  heart !  or  would  he  say,  Go  off, 
beggar's  daughter  ?  What  is  her  dower  now  ?  —  rags.  The 
dogs  in  Lipintse  would  bark  at  her ;  but  still  something 
so  draws  her  there  that  in  truth  the  soul  would  be  glad 
to  fly  out  of  her  and  speed  away  as  a  swift  swallow  over 


FOR  BREAD.  59 

the  water,  and  even  to  die,  if  only  there.  There  he  is, 
Yasko,  mindful  or  not,  but  greatly  beloved ;  only  near 
him  could  she  have  peace,  and  joy,  and  gladness,  of  all 
people,  only  with  him  in  the  world. 

When  there  was  a  fire  in  the  stove,  and  hunger  did  not 
torment  as  to-day,  the  flames,  hissing,  shooting  up  sparks, 
jumping  and  glittering,  spoke  to  her  of  Lipintse,  and 
reminded  her  how  she  sat  long  ago  with  other  girls 
spinning.  Yasko,  looking  in  from  another  room,  cried, 
"  Marysia,  let  us  go  to  the  priest,  for  thou  art  dear  to 
me!"  And  she  answered,  "Be  silent,  you  rogue!"  And 
it  was  so  pleasant  for  her,  so  joyous  in  her  soul,  as  even 
at  that  time  when  he  invited  her  from  a  corner  to  a 
dance'in  the  middle  of  the  room,  he  drew  her  by  force, 
and  she,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  arm,  whispered, 
"  But  go  away,  I  am  ashamed ! "  When  the  flames  re- 
minded her  of  this,  sometimes  tears  covered  her  face ;  but 
now,  just  as  there  was  no  fire  in  the  stove,  there  were  no 
tears  in  her  eyes,  for  she  had  cried  out  all  her  tears.  She 
felt  great  exhaustion  and  weariness ;  she  lacked  strength 
even  to  meditate ;  but  still  she  endured  patiently,  merely 
looking  forward  with  great  eyes,  like  a  bird  which  some 
one  is  torturing. 

She  was  looking  in  that  manner  this  time,  also  sitting 
on  the  straw.  Meanwhile  some  one  moved  the  door  of 
the  room.  Marysia,  with  the  thought  that  that  was  her 
father,  did  not  move  her  head  till  the  voice  of  a  strange 
man  called  out  to  her,  — 

"  Look  here ! " 

This  was  the  owner  of  the  tumble-down  house  in  which 
they  were  living,  —  an  old  mulatto,  gloomy-faced,  dirty, 
tattered,  with  cheeks  puffed  out  with  tobacco. 

When  she  saw  him,  the  girl  was  terribly  frightened. 
They  owed  a  dollar  for  the  coming  week,  and  had  not 


60  FOR  BREAD. 

one  cent.  All  that  she  might  effect  was  through  hu- 
mility, so,  approaching  him,  she  took  hold  of  his  feet, 
and  kissed  his  hand. 

"  I  came  for  the  dollar,"  said  he. 

She  understood  the  word  dollar,  and,  shaking  her 
head,  spoke  in  broken  English,  looked  imploringly,  and 
tried  to  explain  that  they  had  spent  everything,  that 
that  was  the  second  day  since  they  had  eaten,  that 
they  were  hungry,  and  that  he  ought  to  take  pity  on 
them. 

"  God  will  repay  thee,  great,  mighty  lord,"  added  she,  in 
Polish,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  what  to  do. 

The  great,  mighty  lord  did  not  understand,  it  is  true, 
that  he  was  great,  mighty,  but  he  divined  that  he  would 
not  get  the  dollar.  He  divined  so  clearly  indeed  that, 
seizing  with  one  hand  the  bundles  containing  their  effects, 
he  took  the  girl  with  the  other  by  the  arm,  pushed  her 
lightly  upstairs,  conducted  her  to  the  street,  and,  throw- 
ing the  things  at  her  feet,  opened  the  door  of  an  adjacent 
bar-room  and  called, — 

"  Hei !  there  is  a  room  for  you ! " 

"All  right!"  answered  some  voice  from  within.  "I 
will  come  in  the  evening." 

The  mulatto  vanished  then  in  the  dark  entrance,  and 
the  girl  remained  alone  on  the  sidewalk.  She  put  her 
bundles  in  a  niche  of  the  house,  so  that  they  might  not 
roll  in  the  mud,  and,  standing  near  them,  waited,  humble 
as  ever,  in  silence. 

The  drunken  men  who  passed  by  did  not  touch  her 
this  time.  It  was  dark  in  the  room,  but  outside  there 
was  much  light,  and  in  that  light  the  girl's  face  seemed 
as  emaciated  as  after  a  great  illness.  Only  her  bright, 
flaxen  hair  remained  as  before ;  her  lips  had  grown  blue ; 
her  eyes  were  sunken  and  black  underneath;  the  bones 


FOR  BREAD.  61 

stood  forth  in  her  cheeks.  She  was  like  a  flower  which 
is  withering,  or  a  girl  who  must  die. 

Passers-by  looked  at  her  with  a  certain  consideration. 
An  old  negro  woman  asked  her  some  question,  but, 
receiving  no  answer,  passed  on  offended. 

Meanwhile  Vavron  hastened  homeward  with  that 
pleasant  feeling  which  in  very  poor  people  is  roused  by 
an  evident  proof  of  God's  kindness.  He  had  potatoes 
now;  he  was  thinking  how  he  and  Marysia  would  eat 
them ;  how  to-morrow  again  he  would  go  around  wagons ; 
but  of  the  day  after  to-morrow  he  was  not  thinking  at 
that  moment,  for  he  was  very  hungry.  When  from  a 
distance  he  saw  the  girl  standing  on  the  pavement  in 
front  of  the  house,  he  wondered  greatly,  and  hastened 
still  more. 

"  But  why  art  thou  standing  here  ? " 

"  The  house-owner  has  driven  us  out,  father." 

"  Has  he  driven  us  out  ?  " 

The  wood  fell  from  Vavron's  hand.  That  was  too 
much  indeed !  To  drive  them  out  at  that  moment  when 
there  was  wood  and  potatoes !  What  could  they  do  now ; 
where  could  they  cook  the  potatoes  ;  with  what  could  they 
nourish  themselves ;  whither  could  they  go  ?  After  the 
wood,  Vavron  hurled  his  cap  into  the  mud.  "  0  Jesus, 
0  Jesus  ! "  he  turned  around ;  he  opened  his  mouth ;  he 
looked  wildly  at  the  girl  and  repeated  once  more,  — 

"  Did  he  drive  us  out  ?  " 

Then  he  wished  as  it  were  to  go  somewhere,  but  turned 
at  once,  and  his  voice  became  deep,  hoarse,  and  threaten- 
ing, when  he  said  again, — 

"  Why  didst  thou  not  beg  him,  thou  blockhead  ? " 

She  sighed. 

"  I  begged  him." 

"  Didst  thou  take  him  by  the  knees  ? " 


62  FOR  BREAD. 

"  I  did." 

Again  Vavron  turned  on  the  spot,  like  a  worm  which 
some  one  has  pierced.  It  became  entirely  dark  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Would  to  God  thou  wert  dead ! "  cried  he. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  pain. 

"  Tatulo !  how  am  I  to  blame  ? " 

"  Wait  here,  stir  not.  I  will  go  and  beg  him  to  let  us 
even  cook  the  potatoes." 

He  went.  After  a  while  an  uproar  was  heard  in  the 
entrance,  a  trampling  of  feet,  loud  voices,  and  then  out 
flew  Vavron  to  the  street,  pushed  evidently  by  a  strong 
hand. 

He  stood  a  moment,  then  said  to  the  girl,  mildly,  — 

"  Come." 

She  bent  down  over  the  bundles  to  take  them ;  they 
were  very  heavy  for  her  exhausted  strength ;  but  he 
did  not  help  her,  as  if  he  had  forgotten,  as  if  he  did  not 
see  that  the  girl  was  barely  able  to  carry  them. 

Two  such  wretched  figures,  the  old  man  and  the  girl, 
would  have  attracted  the  attention  of  passers-by  if  those 
passers-by  had  been  less  accustomed  to  spectacles  of  misery. 
Whither  could  they  go  ?  Into  what  other  darkness,  into 
what  other  misfortune,  into  what  other  torture  ? 

The  girl's  breath  came  with  more  and  more  difficulty  ; 
she  tottered  once,  and  a  second  time.  At  last  she  said, 
with  entreaty  in  her  voice,  — 

"  Father,  take  the  rags  ;  I  cannot  carry  them." 

He  was  roused,  as  if  from  sleep,  — 

"  Throw  them  away,  then  ! " 
'  But  they  will  be  of  use." 

"  They  will  not  be  of  use." 

Seeing  all  at  once  that  the  girl  hesitated,  he  cried  in  a 
rage, — 


FOR  BREAD.  63 

"  Throw  them  away,  for  I  am  going  to  kill  thee ! " 
This  time  she  obeyed  in  terror,  and  they  went  on.   The 
man  repeated  a  number  of  times  yet,  — 

"  If  it  is  that  way,  then  let  it  be  that  way ! " 
He  was  silent,  but  something  uncanny  was  gazing  out 
of  his  eyes.  Through  narrow  streets,  still  muddier,  they 
were  approaching  the  remotest  harbor.  They  went  out 
onto  a  large  pier  resting  on  piles ;  they  passed  near  a 
building  with  an  inscription,  "  Sailors'  Asylum,"  and 
went  down  close  to  the  very  water.  Men  were  building 
a  new  dock  in  that  place.  The  lofty  timbers  of  a  pile- 
driver  rose  high  above  the  water,  and  among  the  plank 
and  beams  persons  occupied  with  the  work  were  circling 
about.  Marysia,  when  she  had  come  to  a  pile  of  timber, 
sat  down  on  it,  for  she  could  not  go  farther.  Vavron  sat 
near  her  in  silence. 

It  was  four  in  the  afternoon.  The  whole  wharf  was 
seething  with  life  and  movement.  The  mist  had  fallen 
away ;  the  calm  rays  of  the  sun  cast  their  light  and  gra- 
eious  warmth  on  the  two  unfortunates.  The  breath  of 
spring  came  to  land,  fresh,  full  of  life,  and  joyous.  Eound 
about  there  was  so  much  azure  and  light  that  the  eyes 
blinked  under  the  excess  of  them.  The  surface  of  the 
sea  blended  charmingly  with  the  sky.  In  those  blue  ex- 
panses nearer  the  middle  of  the  harbor  were  masts  stand- 
ing motionless,  smoke-stacks,  flags  waving  lightly  in  the 
breeze.  On  the  horizon,  vessels  sailing  into  the  harbor 
seemed  to  move  upward,  or  to  push  themselves  out  of 
the  water.  The  tightly  raised  and  swollen  sails,  looking 
like  clouds,  all  in  sunlight  shone  with  blinding  whiteness 
on  the  azure  of  the  sea.  Some  vessels  going  out  to  the 
ocean  left  a  foaming  trail  behind  them.  They  were 
going  in  the  direction  in  which  Lipintse  lay,  hence  for 
them  both  toward  the  place  of  lost  happiness,  —  that  is, 


64  FOR  BREAD. 

peace  and  a  better  lot.  The  girl  thought  how  could 
they  have  sinned  so  greatly,  what  could  they  have  done 
against  the  Lord  God,  that  He,  the  merciful,  had  turned 
His  face  from  them  in  the  midst  of  strange  people,  and 
thrown  them  out  on  that  distant  shore  ?  In  His  hand 
was  the  power  to  return  them  happiness ;  and  how  many 
ships  were  sailing  away  toward  that  land,  and  sailing 
away  without  taking  them.  She  was  wearied.  Marysia's 
poor  mind  flew  once  more  toward  Lipintse  and  Yasko, 
the  groom.  Was  he  thinking  of  her  ?  Did  he  remember 
her  ?  She  remembered  him,  for  it  is  only  in  happiness 
that  people  forget ;  in  misfortune,  in  loneliness,  thought 
winds  itself  around  the  beloved  one,  as  hops  around  a 
poplar  tree.  But  he  ?  Perhaps  he  has  despised  his 
former  loving,  and  has  sent  matchmakers  to  another 
cottage.  Besides,  it  would  be  even  a  shame  for  him  to 
think  of  one  so  wretched,  one  who  has  nothing  in  this 
world  but  a  garland  of  rue,  and  for  whom,  if  any  one  is 
to  send  a  matchmaker,  it  is  death  alone  who  will  do  so. 

As  she  was  sick,  hunger  did  not  torment  her  much,  but 
sleep,  which  came  of  suffering  and  weakness,  overcame 
her;  the  lids  closed  over  her  eyes,  and  her  pallid  face 
dropped  toward  her  breast.  At  moments  she  woke  and 
opened  her  eyes,  then  she  closed  them  again.  She 
dreamed  that  while  walking  along  certain  chasms  and 
precipices  she  fell  down  like  Kasia,  in  the  peasant  song  : 
"  Into  the  deep  Dunayets,"  and  immediately  she  heard 
distant  singing  clearly, — 

"  Yasko  on  the  high  mountain  saw  that  fall ; 
He  let  himself  down  on  a  silken  cord  to  Marysia; 
But  the  cord  was  too  short,  an  ell  was  still  wanting. 
Marysia,  dear  girl,  give  thy  tress  to  me." 

Here  she  woke  suddenly,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
tress  was  gone,  and  that  she  was  falling  into  the  abyss. 


FOR  BREAD.  65 

The  dream  vanished.  Not  Yasko  was  sitting  near  her, 
but  Vavron ;  and  not  the  "  Dunayets  "  was  visible,  but 
the  harbor  of  New  York,  currents,  scaffoldings,  masts, 
and  smoke-stacks.  Again  certain  vessels  sail  out  into 
the  open,  and  from  them  came  the  singing.  A  calm, 
warm,  clear,  spring  evening  was  reddening  the  sky.  The 
surface  of  the  water  became  like  a  mirror ;  every  vessel, 
every  pile,  was  reflected  as  if  another  were  beneath  it, 
and  all  was  beautiful  round  about.  A  certain  happiness 
and  great  bliss  were  in  the  air;  it  seemed  that  the  whole 
world  was  rejoicing.  They  two  alone  were  unhappy  and 
forgotten.  The  laborers  began  to  return  home ;  they 
alone  had  no  home. 

Hunger  with  iron  hand  was  rending  Vavron's  entrails 
more  and  more.  The  man  sat  gloomy  and  cloudy ;  but 
something,  which  seemed  a  terrible  determination,  began 
to  depict  itself  on  his  face.  Whoso  might  look  at  him 
would  be  frightened,  for  that  face  had  the  expression  of 
a  beast  and  a  bird,  because  of  hunger;  but, at  the  same 
time,  it  was  as  despairingly  calm  as  the  face  of  a  dead 
man.  For  a  whole  hour  he  had  not  spoken  one  word  to 
the  girl ;  but  when  night  had  come,  when  the  dock  was 
deserted  completely,  he  said,  with  a  strange  voice,  — 

"  Let  us  go,  Marysia." 

"  Where  ? "  asked  she,  drowsily. 

"  To  those  platforms  above  the  water.  Let  us  lie  down 
on  the  planks  there,  and  sleep." 

They  went.  In  the  utter  darkness  they  had  to  creep 
along  very  carefully,  so  as  not  to  fall  into  the  water. 

The  American  structure  of  beams  and  planks  formed 
numerous  windings,  and  as  it  were  a  wooden  corridor,  at 
the  very  end  of  which  was  a  platform  of  plank,  and 
beyond  it  a  pile-driver.  On  this  platform,  covered  with  a 
roof  to  protect  from  rain,  stood  the  men  who  drew  the 

5 


66  FOR  BREAD. 

ropes  of  the  pile-driver;  but  now  there  was  no  one 
there. 

When  they  reached  the  very  end,  Vavron  said,  — 

"  Here  we  shall  sleep." 

Marysia  fell  rather  than  placed  herself  on  the  planks, 
and,  though  a  swarm  of  mosquitoes  attacked  them,  she 
fell  asleep  soundly. 

Suddenly  in  the  dark  night  Vavron's  voice  roused  her : 

"  Marysia,  rise  up  ! " 

There  was  something  in  that  call  of  such  nature  that 
she  woke  at  once. 

"  What  is  it,  tatulo  ?  " 

In  the  silence  and  darkness  of  night  the  voice  of  the 
old  peasant  was  deep  and  terrible,  but  calm,  — 

"  Girl !  Thou  wilt  famish  no  longer  from  hunger. 
Thou  wilt  not  go  to  strange  thresholds  for  bread ;  thou 
wilt  not  sleep  out  of  doors.  People  have  deserted  thee. 
God  has  deserted  thee  ;  thy  fate  is  ended,  —  then  let  even 
death  show  thee  kindness.  The  water  is  deep ;  thou  wilt 
not  suffer." 

She  could  not  see  him  in  the  darkness,  though  her  eyes 
were  widely  open  from  terror. 

"I  will  drown  thee,  poor  girl,  I  will  drown  myself, 
too,"  continued  he.  "There  is  no  salvation  for  us,  no 
mercy  above  us.  To-morrow  thou  wilt  have  no  wish  to 
eat ;  thou  wilt  be  happier  to-morrow  than  to-day." 

But  she  had  no  wish  to  die.  She  was  eighteen  years  of 
age,  and  had  that  attachment  to  life,  that  fear  of  death, 
which  youth  gives.  The  whole  soul  in  her  shuddered  to 
its  depth  at  the  thought  that  to-morrow  she  would  be  a 
drowned  corpse,  that  she  would  go  into  some  darkness, 
that  she  would  be  lying  among  fish  and  vile  creatures 
at  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  water.  For  nothing  in  the 
world  !  Eepugnance  and  terror  indescribable  seized  her 


FOR  BREAD.  67 

at  that  moment,  and  her  own  father,  speaking  thus  in 
the  darkness,  seemed  to  her  some  kind  of  evil  spirit. 

During  this  time  his  hands  were  resting  on  her  emaci- 
ated shoulders,  and  the  voice  continued,  with  its  terrible 
calmness,  — 

"  If  thou  scream,  no  man  will  hear  thee.  I  shall  only 
push  thee ;  the  whole  will  not  last  two  Our  Fathers." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  die,  father.  I  do  not ! "  cried 
Marysia.  "  Have  you  no  fear  of  God  ?  Oh,  dear,  golden 
father,  take  pity  on  me !  What  have  I  done  to  you  ? 
You  know  I  have  not  complained  of  my  fate ;  I  have 
suffered  hunger  and  cold  with  you  —  father ! " 

His  breathing  became  quicker,  his  hands  closed  like 
vices;  she  begged  more  and  more  despairingly  against 
death. 

"  Take  pity  on  me  !  mercy  !  oh,  mercy  !  but  I  am  your 
child.  I  am  poor ;  I  am  sick ;  I  am  not  long  for  the 
world  anyhow.  Take  pity  on  me !  I  am  afraid." 

Thus  moaning,  she  clung  to  his  coat,  pressed  her  lips 
imploringly  to  those  hands  which  were  thrusting  her  into 
the  abyss.  But  all  this  seemed  merely  to  urge  him  on. 
His  calmness  passed  into  madness ;  he  began  to  rattle  in 
the  throat,  and  snort.  At  moments  there  was  silence 
between  them,  and  if  any  man  had  been  standing  near  he 
would  have  heard  only  the  loud  breathing  and  struggling, 
and  the  creaking  of  planks.  The  night  was  dark.  It 
was  late,  and  aid  could  come  from  no  place,  for  that  was 
the  very  end  of  the  port,  at  which  even  in  the  daytime 
there  were  no  people  save  laborers. 

"  Mercy  !  mercy  ! "  cried  Marysia,  shrilly. 

At  that  moment  one  hand  drew  her  violently  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  scaffolding,  a  second  began  to  beat  her 
head  to  stifle  her  cries.  But  those  cries  roused  no  echo ; 
some  dog  merely  howled  in  the  distance. 


68  FOR  BREAD. 

The  girl  felt  that  she  was  weakening.  At  last  her 
feet  were  in  emptiness ;  only  her  hands  clung  to  her 
father,  but  her  hands  were  weak.  Her  screams  for 
rescue  grew  fainter  and  fainter ;  her  hands  at  last  tore  off 
a  piece  of  the  coat,  and  Marysia  felt  that  she  was  flying 
into  the  abyss. 

She  had  indeed  fallen  from  the  platform,  but  on  the 
way  she  grasped  a  brace  and  hung  above  the  water. 

The  man  bent  over,  and,  dreadful  to  relate,  fell  to 
loosening  her  hands. 

A  crowd  of  thoughts,  like  a  flock  of  frightened  birds, 
fly  through  her  brain  in  the  form  of  images,  and  light- 
ning flashes,  —  Lipintse,  the  well-sweep,  the  departure,  the 
ship,  the  storm,  the  Litany,  the  misery  of  New  York, 
finally  that  which  is  happening  to  her.  Then  she  sees 
a  ship,  immense,  with  lofty  prow,  on  it  a  throng  of 
people,  and  out  of  that  throng  two  hands  are  stretched 
toward  her.  As  God  lives  !  that  is  Yasko  standing  there ; 
Yasko  stretches  his  hand  out,  and,  above  the  ship,  and 
above  Yasko,  is  the  Mother  of  God  smiling,  surrounded 
with  immense  brightness.  At  sight  of  this  she  pushes 
apart  the  people  on  shore:  "Most  holy  Virgin!  Yasko! 
Yasko  ! "  One  moment  more  —  once  again  she  raises  her 
eyes  to  her  father :  "  Oh,  father !  the  Mother  of  God  is 
up  there,  the  Mother  of  God  is  up  there  ! " 

The  next  moment  those  same  hands  which  were  push- 
ing her  into  the  water  seize  her  weakening  arms,  and 
draw  her  up  with  a  kind  of  preterhuman  strength.  Now 
she  feels  the  plank  of  the  structure  under  her  feet ;  again 
an  arm  surrounds  her,  but  the  arm  of  a  father,  not  an 
executioner,  and  her  head  falls  on  his  breast. 

When  she  recovered  from  her  faint,  she  saw  that  she 
was  lying  quietly  near  her  father ;  and,  though  it  was 
dark,  she  saw  him  lying  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and  saw 


FOR  BREAD.  69 

that  deep,  penitent  sobs  were  shaking  him,  and  rending 
his  breast. 

"  Marysia,"  said  he,  at  length,  in  a  voice  broken  with 
sobs,  "  forgive  me,  child." 

The  girl  sought  his  hand  in  the  darkness,  and,  putting 
it  to  her  pale  lips,  whispered,  — 

"  Father !  may  the  Lord  Jesus  forgive  you  as  I  forgive." 

Out  of  the  pale  clearness  which  for  some  time  had 
been  on  the  horizon  came  the  moon  at  last,  large,  mild, 
full,  and  again  something  wonderful  happened.  Marysia 
saw  whole  swarms  of  little  angels,  like  golden  bees,  and 
they  floated  to  her  on  the  moon-rays,  buzzing  with  their 
little  wings,  circling,  winding,  and  singing  with  childlike 
voices,  — 

"  Maiden  tormented,  peace  to  thee !  Poor  little  bird, 
peace  to  thee  !  Flower  of  the  field,  peace  to  thee !  Pa- 
tient and  silent,  peace  to  thee !  " 

Thus  singing,  they  shook  over  her  the  cups  of  white 
lilies,  and  little  silver  bells  which  sounded,  — 

"  Sleep  to  thee,  maiden !  sleep  to  thee !  sleep !  sleep ! 
sleep ! " 

And  it  became  so  pleasant  for  her,  so  clear,  so  calm, 
that  she  fell  asleep  really. 

The  night  passed,  and  began  to  grow  pale.  Dawn 
caine.  Light  whitened  the  water.  The  masts  and  smoke- 
stacks came  out  of  the  darkness  and  drew  nearer ;  Vav- 
ron  was  kneeling  now,  bent  over  Marysia. 

He  thought  that  she  had  died.  Her  slender  form  lay 
motionless ;  her  eyes  were  closed  her  face,  pale  as  linen, 
with  a  bluish  tinge,  calm  and  deathlike.  In  vain  did 
the  old  man  shake  her  arm,  she  quivered  not,  neither  did 
she  open  her  eyes.  It  seemed  to  Vavron  that  he  too 
would  die ;  but,  putting  his  hand  to  her  mouth,  he  felt 
that  she  was  breathing.  Her  heart  was  I  eating,  though 


70  FOR  BREAD. 

faintly ;  he  understood  that  she  might  die  any  moment. 
If  a  pleasant  day  rose  from  the  mist  of  the  morning,  if 
the  sun  warmed  her,  she  would  waken,  otherwise  she 
would  not. 

The  sea-gulls  circled  above  her  as  if  concerned  for  her 
safety ;  some  of  them  sat  on  a  neighboring  pillar.  The 
morn  ing  mist  vanished  slowly  under  the  breath  of  wind 
from  the  west.  It  was  a  spring  breeze,  warm,  full  of 
sweetness. 

Then  the  sun  rose.  Its  rays  fell  first  on  the  top  of  the 
pile-driver,  then,  descending  lower  and  lower,  cast  their 
golden  light  on  the  deathlike  face  of  Marysia.  They 
seemed  to  kiss  it,  to  fondle  it,  and  as  it  were  embrace  it. 
In  those  rays,  and  in  that  garland  of  bright  hair,  di- 
shevelled from  the  struggle  of  the  night  and  from  damp- 
ness, the  face  seemed  simply  angelic ;  but  Marysia,  too, 
was  almost  an  angel  through  her  suffering  and  mis- 
fortune. 

A  beautiful,  rosy  day  came  up  from  the  water ;  the  sun 
warmed  with  increasing  strength ;  the  wind  blew  with 
pity  on  the  maiden ;  the  sea-gulls,  circling  like  a  garland, 
cried,  as  if  they  wished  to  rouse  her.  Vavron,  taking  off 
his  coat,  covered  her  feet  with  it,  and  hope  entered  his 
heart. 

Indeed  the  blueness  left  her  face  gradually ;  her  cheeks 
gained  a  slight  rose-color ;  she  smiled  once  and  a  second 
time ;  and  finally  she  opened  her  eyelids. 

Then  that  old  peasant  knelt  on  the  pier,  raised  his 
eyes  heavenward,  and  tears  flowed  in  two  streams  along 
his  wrinkled  face. 

He  felt  once  and  forever  that  that  child  was  now  the 
sight  of  his  eyes,  the  soul  of  his  soul,  and  as  it  were  a 
sacredness  beloved  above  everything. 

She  not  only  woke,  but  she  woke  feeling  better  and 


FOR  BREAD.  71 

more  lively  than  the  day  previous.  The  pure  air  of  the 
harbor  was  more  wholesome  for  her  than  the  poison  air 
of  the  room.  She  had  returned  to  life  indeed,  for,  sitting 
on  the  plank,  she  said  immediately, — 

"  Father,  I  want  very  much  to  eat." 

"  Come,  daughter,  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  we  may  find 
something  there,"  said  he. 

She  rose  without  great  effort  and  went.  Evidently 
that  day  was  to  be  somehow  exceptional  in  the  days  of 
their  misfortune,  for  barely  had  they  gone  a  few  steps 
when  they  saw  there  near  them  on  the  scaffolding 
a  handkerchief  thrust  in  between  two  beams,  in  it  was 
cooked  corn  and  salt  meat.  The  simple  explanation  of 
this  was  that  some  laborer  working  at  the  wharf  had  put 
away  yesterday  a  part  of  his  food  for  to-day.  Laborers 
there  had  that  custom ;  but  Vavron  and  Marysia  inter- 
preted it  still  more  simply.  Who  put  that  food  there  ? 
In  their  opinion  He  who  thinks  of  every  bird  and  flower, 
every  grasshopper  and  ant. 

God! 

They  repeated  Our  Father  and  ate,  though  there  was 
not  much  there,  and  then  went  along  the  water  to  the 
main  docks.  New  strength  entered  into  them.  Going  to 
the  custom-house,  they  turned  up  Water  Street  toward 
Broadway.  With  halts,  this  occupied  two  hours,  for  the 
road  was  a  long  one.  At  times  they  sat  on  boards  or 
empty  boxes.  They  went  on,  not  knowing  themselves 
why  they  went ;  but  somehow  it  seemed  to  Marysia  that 
they  ought  to  go  to  the  city.  On  the  way  they  met  a 
multitude  of  goods-wagons  going  to  the  wharf.  On 
Water  Street  the  movement  was  not  slight.  Doors 
opened  and  out  came  people  who  went  hurriedly  to  their 
daily  labor. 

In  one  of  these  doorways  appeared  a  tall,  gray-mus- 


72  FOR  BREAD. 

tached  gentleman  with  a  young  boy.  When  he  came  out, 
he  looked  at  Vavron  and  Marysia,  at  their  dress ;  his 
mustache  quivered,  astonishment  appeared  on  his  face, 
then  he  looked  more  quickly,  and  smiled. 

A  human  face  smiling  at  them  in  a  friendly  manner  in 
New  York  was  a  wonder,  a  witchery,  at  sight  of  which 
both  were  astounded. 

The  gray-haired  man  approached  them,  and  asked,  in 
the  purest  Polish,  — 

"  And  you  people,  whence  come  you  ? " 

A  thunderbolt  as  it  were  had  struck  them.  Vavron,  in- 
stead of  answering,  became  as  pale  as  a  wall  and  tottered, 
believing  neither  his  ears  nor  his  eyes.  Marysia,  recover- 
ing first,  fell  at  once  to  the  feet  of  the  old  gentleman, 
embraced  them,  and  said,  — 

"From  Poznan,  serene  heir,  from  Poznan." 

"  What  are  ye  doing  here  ? " 

"  We  are  in  need,  in  hunger,  in  terrible  misfortune, 
dear  master." 

Here  her  voice  failed.  Vavron  cast  himself  flat  at  the 
feet  of  the  old  gentleman,  kissed  the  hem  of  his  overcoat, 
and,  holding  to  it,  thought  that  he  had  caught  a  piece  of 
heaven. 

"  This  is  a  lord  for  thee,  and  he  is  our  lord.  He 
will  not  let  a  man  die ;  he  will  save,  he  will  not  let  us 
perish." 

The  young  lad  who  was  with  the  gray-haired  gentle- 
man stared ;  people  gathered  around,  gaped,  and  looked 
wonderingly  at  one  man  kneeling  before  another  and 
kissing  his  feet.  In  America  this  is  unheard  of.  The 
old  gentleman  grew  angry  at  the  gapers. 

"  This  is  no  '  business '  of  yours,"  said  he  to  them  in 
English;  "go  about  your  own  business!"  Then  he 
turned  to  Vavron  and  Marysia,  — 


FOR  BREAD.  73 

"  We  will  not  stand  on  the  street ;  come  with  me." 

He  conducted  them  to  the  nearest  restaurant,  where 
they  entered  a  room  apart,  and  he  shut  himself  in  with 
them  and  the  boy.  Again  they  fell  at  his  feet,  which  he 
forbade,  and  scolded  them  angrily, — 

"An  end  to  this  !  We  are  from  the  same  country,  chil- 
dren of  one  mother." 

Here,  evidently,  smoke  from  a  cigar  which  he  had  in 
his  mouth  began  to  affect  his  eyes,  for  he  wiped  them 
with  his  hand,  and  asked, — 

"  Are  you  hungry  ? " 

"  For  two  days  we  have  eaten  nothing ;  but  to-day  we 
found  a  little  near  the  water." 

"  William  ! "  said  he  to  the  lad,  "  order  them  something 
to  eat."  Then  he  continued,  — 

"  Where  do  you  live  ? " 

"  Nowhere,  serene  lord,  nowhere." 

"  Where  have  you  slept  ? " 

"  Above  the  water." 

"  You  were  driven  from  your  lodgings  ? " 

"  Driven." 

"  You  have  no  things  except  those  on  your  bodies  ? " 

"  We  have  not." 

"  You  have  no  money  ? " 

"  We  have  not." 

"  What  will  you  do  ? 

"  We  know  not." 

The  old  gentleman,  inquiring  quickly,  and  as  it  were 
angrily,  turned  all  at  once  to  Marysia,  — 

"  How  old  are  you,  girl  ? " 

"  I  shall  finish  the  eighteenth  year  Assumption  day." 

"  You  have  suffered  much  ? " 

She  made  no  answer,  but  bowed  to  his  feet  with 
humility. 


74  FOR  BREAD. 

The  smoke  began  evidently  to  bite  the  old  gentleman's 
eyes  again. 

At  that  same  moment  beer  and  hot  meat  were  brought 
in.  The  old  gentleman  commanded  them  to  begin  eating 
at  once,  and  they  answered  that  they  dared  -not  do  that 
in  his  presence  ;  he  told  them  that  they  were  fools.  But, 
in  spite  of  his  temper,  he  seemed  an  angel  from  heaven 
to  them. 

When  they  had  eaten,  clearly  that  delighted  him  much  ; 
he  asked  them  to  tell  how  they  had  come  to  America, 
and  through  what  they  had  passed.  So  Vavron  told 
him  all,  withheld  nothing,  just  as  he  would  confess  to  a 
priest.  The  old  gentleman  was  angry,  he  scolded;  and 
when  it  came  to  telling  how  Vavron  wanted  to  drown  his 
own  daughter,  he  cried,  — 

"  I  would  have  flayed  thee ! " 

Then  he  said  to  Marysia,  — 

"  Come  here,  girl ! " 

When  she  went  up  to  him,  he  took  her  head  between 
his  hands  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead ;  then  he  thought 
a  while,  and  said,  - 

"  You  have  passed  through  misery.  But  this  is  a  good 
country ;  only  a  man  must  know  how  to  manage." 

Vavron  stared  at  him:  this  worthy  wise  gentleman 
called  America  a  good  country ! 

"  It  is  true,  stupid  fellow,"  said  he,  observing  Vavron's 
astonishment,  "  a  good  country !  When  I  came  here,  I 
had  nothing ;  now  I  have  a  morsel  of  bread.  For  you 
peasants,  though,  land-tilling  is  the  work,  not  wandering 
about  the  world.  When  you  go  away  from  home,  who 
will  remain  over  there  ?  You  are  of  no  use  in  this  coun- 
try ;  but  to  come  here  is  easy,  to  go  back  is  difficult." 

He  was  silent  a  time,  then  added,  as  if  to  himself,  — 

"  I  am  here  forty  and  some  years,  and  I  have  forgotten 


FOR  BREAD.  75 

the  country  over  there.  But  at  times  homesickness  seizes 
me.  William  must  go  there ;  let  him  see  how  his  fathers 
lived.  This  is  my  son,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  boy. 
"William,  thou  wilt  bring  me  a  handful  of  earth  from 
home  to  put  under  my  head  in  the  coffin." 

"  Yes,  father,"  answered  the  boy,  in  English. 

"  And  for  my  breast,  William,  and  for  my  breast !  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

The  smoke  now  affected  the  old  gentleman's  eyes  so 
terribly  that  his  eyeballs  were  as  if  covered  with  glass. 
Then  he  was  angry  and,  pointing  to  the  boy,  said,  — 

"  This  fellow  understands  Polish,  but  he  likes  English 
better.  It  has  to  be  so  here.  What  falls  here  is  lost  for 
the  old  thresholds.  Go,  William,  tell  thy  sister  that  we 
shall  have  guests  for  dinner  and  for  the  night." 

The  boy  rushed  away  quickly.  The  old  gentleman 
fell  to  thinking,  and  was  silent  a  long  time;  then  he 
said,  as  if  to  himself,  — 

"  Even  send  them  home,  the  cost  would  be  great,  and, 
besides,  what  would  they  return  to?  They  have  sold 
what  they  had;  they  would  go  to  begging.  In  service 
God  knows  what  would  happen  to  the  girl.  Since  they 
are  here,  they  must  try  to  find  work.  Send  them  to 
some  colony ;  the  girl  will  marry  after  a  while.  She 
and  her  husband  will  save  something;  if  they  want  to 
go  home,  they  will  take  the  old  man.  Hast  heard  of  our 
colonies  in  this  country  ? "  said  he  then  to  Vavron. 

"  I  have  not  heard,  great,  mighty  lord." 

"  Oh,  people !  how  they  start  here  !  By  the  dear  God ! 
You  will  not  be  lost.  In  Chicago  there  are  twenty  thou- 
sand like  thee,  in  Milwaukee  as  many,  in  Detroit  a  good 
number,  in  Buffalo  many.  They  work  in  factories ;  but 
for  a  peasant,  farming  is  better.  We  might  send  thee  to 
Radomia,  to  Illinois, — hm  !  land  is  dear  there.  They  are 


76  FOR  BREAD. 

founding  a  new  Poznan  on  the  prairies  of  Nebraska ;  but 
that  is  far  away.  The  railroad  fare  is  costly.  There  is 
the  Panna  Maria  (Virgin  Mary)  colony  in  Texas ;  that  is 
far  away  also.  Best  of  all  is  to  go  to  Borovina,  especially 
since  I  can  get  free  tickets,  and  what  I  give  thee  in  hand 
save  for  housekeeping." 

He  thought  a  while  still  more  deeply. 

"Listen,  old  man,"  said  he  on  a  sudden.  "They  are 
founding  a  new  colony  in  Borovina  in  Arkansas.  That 
is  a  nice  country  and  warm,  and  the  land  is  almost  vacant. 
There  thou  wilt  get  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres  from  the 
Government  for  nothing,  and  from  the  railroad  for  a  small 
price  —  dost  understand  ?  To  begin  housekeeping,  I  will 
give  money,  and  I  will  give  thee  tickets,  for  I  can  do  so. 
Ye  will  go  to  Little  Rock ;  from  that  place  thou  must  go 
in  a  wagon.  Thou  wilt  find  others  there  who  will  go 
with  thee.  Besides,  I  will  give  thee  letters.  I  wish  to 
help  thee,  for  I  am  thy  brother ;  but  I  care  more  a  hun- 
dred times  for  thy  daughter  than  for  thee.  Dost  under- 
stand ?  Thank  God  who  sent  you  both  to  me  ! " 

Here  his  voice  became  perfectly  mild. 

"  Listen,  child,"  said  he  to  Marysia,  "here  is  my  card; 
keep  it  sacredly.  Whenever  trouble  presses  thee,  shouldst 
thou  be  alone  in  the  world  and  without  assistance,  find 
me.  Thou  art  a  poor  child  and  good.  If  I  die,  William 
will  care  for  thee.  Do  not  lose  the  card.  Come  with 
me  now." 

On  the  road  he  bought  linen  for  them  and  clothing ; 
then  he  took  them  to  his  house  and  entertained  them. 
That  was  a  house  filled  with  kind  people,  for  William 
and  Jennie  occupied  themselves  with  both  as  if  they 
had  been  relatives.  William  treated  Marysia  as  if  she 
had  been  some  "  lady ; "  this  embarrassed  her  terribly. 
In  the  evening  a  number  of  young  girls,  nicely  dressed 


FOR  BREAD.  77 

and  kind,  with  bangs  on  their  foreheads,  visited  Panna 
Jennie.  These  took  Marysia  among  them,  wondered  that 
she  was  so  pale,  and  so  pretty,  that  she  had  such  bright 
hair,  that  she  bent  to  their  feet  and  kissed  their  hands, 
—  at  this  they  laughed  greatly. 

The  old  gentleman  went  among  the  young  people, 
shook  his  white  head,  muttered,  was  angry  at  times, 
spoke  now  in  English,  now  in  Polish,  spoke  with  Marysia 
and  Vavron  of  his  and  their  distant  native  places,  re- 
called, forgot,  and  from  time  to  time  the  smoke  of  the 
cigar  affected  his  eyes  evidently,  for  he  rubbed  them 
often  in  secret. 

When  all  separated  to  sleep,  Marysia  could  not  restrain 
her  tears,  seeing  that  Panna  Jennie  prepared  the  bed  for 
her  with  her  own  hands.  Oh,  how  kind  these  people 
were !  But  what  wonder,  —  the  old  gentleman  was  also 
from  Poznan ! 

On  the  third  day  Vavron  and  Marysia  were  on  the 
way  to  Little  Rock.  The  old  man  had  a  hundred  dollars 
in  his  pocket,  and  had  forgotten  his  misery  altogether. 
Marysia  felt  above  her  the  visible  hand  of  God,  and  be- 
lieved that  that  hand  would  not  let  her  perish ;  that  as  it 
had  brought  her  out  of  misfortune,  it  would  bring  Yasko 
also  to  America,  and  watch  over  both,  and  would  let 
them  even  return  to  Lipintse. 

Meanwhile  cities  and  farms  shot  past  the  car-windows. 
That  was  different  entirely  from  New  York.  There  were 
fields  and  pine  woods  in  the  distance,  and  cottages  and 
trees  growing  around  them ;  a  fleece  of  every  kind  of  grain 
was  green  in  great  streaks  on  the  earth,  exactly  as  in 
Poland.  At  sight  of  this  Vavron's  breast  swelled  so  that 
he  had  the  wish  to  shout,  "  Hei,  ye  pine  woods,  ye  green 
fields ! "  Herds  of  cows  and  flocks  of  sheep  were  pas- 
turing on  meadows;  on  the  edges  of  forests  men  with 


78  FOR   BREAD. 

axes  were  visible.  The  train  flew  farther  and  farther. 
Gradually  the  country  became  less  populated.  The  farms 
vanished,  and  the  country  opened  out  into  a  wide  and 
unoccupied  prairie.  The  wind  bent  waves  of  grass  on  it, 
and  it  glittered  with  flowers.  In  places  there  wound,  in 
the  form  of  a  golden  ribbon,  roads  covered  with  yellow 
blossoms,  upon  which  no  wagon  had  ever  passed.  Lofty 
grass  plots,  mulleins,  and  thistles  nodded  their  heads  as 
if  greeting  the  traveller.  Eagles  floated  on  broad  wings 
over  the  prairie  and  surveyed  the  grass  carefully.  The 
train  tore  on,  as  if  wishing  to  fly  to  that  place  where 
those  prairie  expanses  are  lost  to  the  vision  and  blend 
with  the  sky.  From  the  car-window  were  seen  whole 
flocks  of  rabbits  and  prairie  dogs.  At  times  the  horned 
head  of  a  deer  appeared  above  the  grass.  Nowhere  were 
church  spires,  or  towns,  or  villages,  or  a  house,  —  nothing 
save  stations,  and  between  stations  and  behind  them  no 
living  soul. 

Vavron  looked  at  all  this,  tortured  his  brain,  but  could 
not  understand  how  so  much  "  goodness,"  as  he  called 
land,  should  lie  idle. 

Day  and  night  passed.  One  morning  they  entered 
forests  in  which  the  trees  were  entwined  with  plants  as 
thick  as  the  arm  of  a  man,  which  made  the  forest  so 
dense  that  one  would  have  to  cut  with  an  axe  through  it, 
as  through  a  wall.  Unknown  birds  were  singing  in  these 
green  densities.  Once  it  seemed  to  Vavron  and  Marysia 
that  amid  these  labyrinths  they  saw  certain  horsemen 
with  feathers  on  their  heads,  and  faces  as  red  as  polished 
brass.  Seeing  those  forests,  and  unoccupied  prairies,  and 
empty  pine  woods,  all  these  unknown  wonders  and  strange 
people,  the  old  man  could  not  restrain  himself  at  last,  and 
said,  — 

"  Marysia  ? " 


FOR  BREAD.  79 

"  What,  father  ? " 

"  Dost  see  ? " 

"  I  see." 

"  And  dost  wonder  ? " 

"  I  wonder." 

They  passed  a  river  now  three  times  wider  than  the 
Varta,  and  late  that  night  they  arrived  at  Little  Eock. 

From  there  they  had  to  inquire  for  the  road  to  Boro- 
vina.  We  will  leave  them  here  for  the  moment.  The 
second  division  of  their  wandering  for  bread  is  finished. 
The  third  was  to  be  worked  out  in  the  woods,  amid  the 
sound  of  axes,  and  in  the  oppressive  heat  of  life  in  a 
colony.  Whether  there  were  fewer  tears  in  it,  less 
suffering  and  misfortune,  we  shall  know  before  long. 


III. 
LIFE  IN  THE  COLONY. 

WHAT  was  Borovina  ?  A  colony  to  be  founded.  But 
evidently  the  name  was  thought  out  in  advance,  starting 
from  the  principle  that  where  there  is  a  name  there 
must  be  a  thing.  Preliminarily  Polish,  and  even  Ameri- 
can, papers,  published  in  New  York,  Chicago,  Buffalo, 
Detroit,  Milwaukee,  Manitowoc,  Denver,  Calumet,  in  a 
word,  in  all  places  where  it  was  possible  to  hear  Polish 
speech,  announced,  urbi  d  orbi  (to  the  city  and  the 
world)  in  general,  and  to  Polish  colonists  in  particular, 
that  whoever  of  them  wished  to  be  healthy,  rich,  happy, 
eat  fatly,  live  long,  and  after  death  receive  salvation 
surely,  should  inscribe  himself  for  a  share  in  an  earthly 
paradise,  or  in  Borovina. 

The  advertisements  declared  that  Arkansas,  in  which 
Borovina  was  to  rise,  was  a  country  still  unoccupied,  but 


80  FOR  BREAD. 

the  wholesomest  on  earth.  It  is  true  that  the  town  of 
Memphis,  lying  at  the  very  border  on  the  other  bank  of 
the  Mississippi,  was  a  hotbed  of  yellow  fever ;  but,  accord- 
ing to  the  advertisements,  neither  yellow,  nor  any  other 
fever  could  cross  such  a  river  as  the  Mississippi.  On 
the  higher  bank  of  the  Arkansas  River  it  did  not  exist, 
because  the  neighboring  Indians,  the  Choctaws,  would 
scalp  it  without  mercy.  Fever  trembles  at  sight  of  a 
redskin.  Because  of  this  combination  of  circumstances, 
colonists  of  Borovina  would  dwell  in  a  perfectly  neutral 
zone  between  fever  on  the  east  and  Indians  on  the  west. 
Having  before  it, "moreover,  such  a  future.  Borovina  would, 
in  a  thousand  years,  contain,  beyond  doubt,  two  million 
inhabitants  ;  and  land,  for  which  to-day  one  dollar  and 
fifty  cents  an  acre  was  paid,  would  be  sold  at  auction  for 
no  less  than  a  thousand  dollars  a  square  yard. 

It  was  difficult  to  resist  such  promises  and  prospects. 
Those  to  whom  the  neighborhood  of  the  Choctaws  was 
less  pleasing,  were  assured  by  advertisements  that  this 
valiant  tribe  was  animated  by  a  most  particular  sym- 
pathy for  Poles,  that  therefore  it  was  proper  to  look  for- 
ward to  most  agreeable  relations.  Moreover,  it  was 
known  that  when  the  railroad  passed  through  the  prairies, 
and  there  would  be  telegraph  poles  in  the  form  of  crosses, 
those  crosses  would  soon  serve  as  monuments  above  the 
graves  of  Indians ;  and  since  the  land  of  Borovina  was 
obtained  from  the  railroad,  the  disappearance  of  the 
Indians  was  a  question  of  time,  nothing  more. 

The  land  had  been  acquired,  indeed,  from  the  railroad ; 
this  assured  the  colony  connection  with  the  world,  an  out- 
let for  products,  and  future  development.  The  advertise- 
ments had  forgotten  to  add,  it  is  true,  that  this  railroad 
was  only  projected,  and  that  the  sale  of  sections  of 
land,  granted  roads  by  the  Government  in  uninhabited 


FOR   BREAD.  81 

places,  was  to  guarantee,  or  rather  to  complete,  the  capital 
needful  to  build.  This  omission  was,  however,  pardon- 
able in  business  so  complicated.  Moreover,  it  involved 
this  difference  for  Borovina,  that  the  colony,  instead  of 
being  on  the  line  of  the  road,  was  in  a  deep  wilderness 
to  which  one  had  to  go  amid  immense  difficulties,  with 
wagons. 

From  these  omissions,  various  disputes  might  rise, 
which  were  only  temporary,  however,  and  would  cease  at 
once  with  the  building  of  the  road.  Besides,  it  is  known 
that  advertisements  in  America  are  not  to  be  taken  liter- 
ally, for  as  plants  transferred  to  American  soil  flourish 
surely,  but  at  the  cost  of  their  fruit,  in  like  manner  ad- 
vertisements in  American  papers  increase  so  in  every 
direction  that  at  times  it  is  difficult  to  separate  the  one 
grain  of  truth  from  rhetorical  chaff. 

But  putting  aside  everything  which  in  the  advertise- 
ments touching  Borovina  should  be  considered  as  hum- 
bug, so  called,  it  might  still  be  supposed  that  that  colony 
would  not  be  worse  than  a  thousand  others,  the  rise  of 
which  was  announced  with  no  less  exaggeration. 

The  conditions  appeared  in  many  respects  favorable, 
hence  a  multitude  of  persons,  and  even  of  Polish  families, 
scattered  throughout  the  Union,  from  the  Great  Lakes 
to  the  palm  forests  of  Florida,  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  coast  of  California,  inscribed  themselves  as  settlers 
in  the  colony  about  to  be  founded.  Mazovians  from 
Prussia,  Silesians,  people  of  Poznan,  Galicia,  Lithuanians 
from  Augustov,  and  Mazovians  from  near  Warsaw,  who 
worked  in  factories  in  Chicago  and  Milwaukee,  and  who 
for  a  long  time  had  been  sighing  for  a  life  which  a 
peasant  should  lead,  seized  the  first  opportunity  to  escape 
from  Stirling  cities,  blackened  with  smoke  and  soot,  and 
betake  themselves  to  the  plough  and  axe  in  the  broad 

6 


82  FOR  BREAD. 

fields,  forests,  and  prairies  of  Arkansas.  Those  for  whom  it 
was  too  hot  at  Panna  Maria  in  Texas,  or  too  cold  in  Min- 
nesota, or  too  damp  in  Detroit,  or  too  hungry  in  Eadomia 
in  Illinois,  joined  with  the  first,  and  a  number  of  hundreds 
of  people,  mostly  men,  but  still  a  good  many  women  and 
children,  moved  to  Arkansas.  The  name  "  Bloody  Arkan- 
sas "  did  not  overmuch  terrify  the  colonists.  Though, 
to  tell  the  truth,  this  section  abounds  yet  in  thieving 
Indians,  and  so-called  outlaws  or  robbers,  fleeing  from 
justice,  and  wild  squatters  who  cut  timber  on  Ked  Kiver 
in  defiance  of  Government,  and  various  other  adventurers 
or  scoundrels  avoiding  the  gallows ;  though  hitherto  the 
western  part  of  the  State  was  famous  for  savage  struggles 
between  Indians  and  the  white  buffalo-hunters,  and  for 
the  terrible  "  lynch  "  law,  —  still  it  was  possible  to  help 
one's  self  in  all  this.  The  Mazovian  who  feels  a  knotty 
club  in  his  fist,  and  especially  when  he  has  a  Mazovian  at 
each  side  of  him  and  a  Mazovian  behind,  will  not  yield 
much  to  any  one,  and  to  the  man  who  crawls  into  his 
path  he  is  ready  to  shout,  "  Do  not  move,  do  not  push  in 
here,  or  we  will  pound  you  till  you  are  lame  ! "  It  is 
also  known  that  Mazovians  like  to  keep  together  and 
settle  so  that  Matsek  may  hurry  at  any  moment  to  help 
another  Matsek  with  a  club. 

The  rallying  point  for  the  majority  was  Little  Eock  ;  but 
from  Little  Kock  to  Clarksville,  the  settlement  nearest 
Borovina  was  a  little  farther  than  from  Warsaw  to 
Cracow,  and,  what  was  worse,  colonists  had  to  pass 
through  an  uninhabited  country,  and  make  their  way 
through  forests  and  deep  water.  In  fact  a.  number  of 
people,  unwilling  to  wait  for  the  whole  company,  started 
on  alone,  and  perished  without  tidings;  but  the  main 
camp  arrived  successfully,  and  fixed  itself  in  the  midst 
of  the  forest. 


FOR  BREAD.  83 

When  the  colonists  reached  the  place,  they  were  in 
truth  greatly  disenchanted.  They  had  hoped  to  find  in 
the  colony  lands,  forests,  and  fields ;  they  found  only 
forests,  which  had  to  be  felled.  Black  oak,  redwood, 
cottonwood,  the  light-colored  sycamore,  and  the  dark 
hickory  stood  side  by  side  in  one  mass. 

That  wilderness  was  no  joke,  lined  with  chaparral 
below,  entangled  with  hanging  plants  above,  which  went 
from  tree  to  tree  like  cables  and  ropes,  forming,  as  it  were 
hanging  bridges,  curtains,  as  it  were,  festoons  covered 
with  flowers,  and  so  dense,  so  packed  and  entangled,  that 
the  eye  could  not  see  in  the  distance  as  in  our  forests ; 
and  whoso  went  into  them  more  deeply  could  not  see  the 
sky  above  his  head,  but  had  to  wander  in  darkness,  and 
might  go  astray  and  be  lost  forever.  One  and  another 
Mazovian  looked  at  his  fist,  at  his  axe,  then  at  those  oaks, 
a  number  of  yards  in  circumference,  and  more  than  one 
man  grew  sad.  It  is  well  to  have  timber  for  a  cottage 
and  for  fuel ;  but  for  one  colonist  to  cut  down  a  forest  of 
a  hundred  and  sixty  acres,  pull  the  stumps  out  of  the 
ground,  level  the  land,  and  then  plough  it,  is  the  work 
of  years. 

But  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  hence  the  day 
after  the  arrival  of  the  company  each  man  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  on  himself,  spat  on  his  hands,  caught  up  his 
axe,  grunted,  whirled  the  axe,  struck  ;  and  from  that 
time  forth  the  noise  of  axes  was  heard  in  that  Arkansas 
forest,  and  at  times  too  songs  attended  with  echoes, — 

"  Kasenko  came.     He  came  from  the  mansion, 
Dear,  darling  Kasenko. 
Come  to  the  pinewood, 
Come  to  the  pinewood,  come  to  the  dark  one." 

The  camp  stood  at  the  bank  of  a  river,  or  rather  on  a 
broad  plain  at  the  edge  of  which  were  to  stand  in  a  quad- 


84  FOR  BREAD. 

rangle  the  cottages ;  in  the  middle,  with  time,  was  to  be 
a  church  and  a  school.  But  that  was  far  ahead  ;  mean- 
while the  wagons  in  which  the  colonists'  families  had  ar- 
rived were  put  in  line.  Those  wagons  were  arranged  in 
a  triangle  so  that  in  case  of  attack  people  might  defend 
themselves  behind  them  as  in  a  fortress.  Beyond  the 
wagons,  on  the  rest  of  the  plain,  were  the  mules,  horses, 
oxen,  cows,  and  sheep,  watched  by  a  guard  composed  of 
armed  young  men.  The  people  slept  in  the  wagons,  or 
inside  the  triangle  at  fires. 

In  the  daytime  women  and  children  remained  in  the 
camp ;  the  presence  of  men  was  known  only  by  the 
sound  of  axes,  which  filled  the  whole  forest.  At  night 
wild  beasts  howled  in  the  thickets,  jaguars,  Arkan- 
sas wolves,  and  coyotes.  Terrible  gray  bears,  which  fear 
the  glare  of  fire  less  than  other  beasts,  approached  rather 
near  the  wagons  at  times  ;  wherefore  gunshots  were  heard 
frequently  in  the  darkness,  and  shouts  of  "  Hurry  to  kill 
the  beast ! "  Men  who  had  come  from  the  wild  regions 
of  Texas  were  trained  hunters,  for  the  greater  part,  and 
those  obtained  with  ease,  for  themselves  and  their  fami- 
lies, the  flesh  of  wild  beasts ;  namely,  antelopes,  deer,  and 
buffaloes,  for  that  was  the  time  of  spring  migration  when 
those  animals  went  northward.  The  rest  of  the  colonists 
nourished  themselves  with  supplies  bought  in  Clarksville 
or  Little  Rock,  and  composed  of  Indian  corn  and  salt 
pork.  Besides,  they  killed  sheep,  a  certain  number  of 
which  had  been  brought  by  each  family. 

In  the  evening,  when  a  large  fire  was  made  near  the 
wagons,  the  young  people  danced,  after  supper,  instead 
of  going  to  sleep.  A  certain  man  who  could  play  had 
brought  with  him  a  violin  ;  on  this  he  played  the  Obertas 
by  ear,  and  when  the  sound  of  the  violin  was  lost 
amid  the  noise  of  the  forest  and  under  the  open  sky, 


FOR  BREAD.  85 

others  helped  the  player  in  American  fashion  with  tin 
plates. 

Life  passed  noisily  in  hard  work,  and  moreover  without 
order.  The  first  thing  was  to  build  cottages  ;  in  fact,  on 
the  green  plain  there  soon  appeared  the  bodies  of  a  num- 
ber of  them,  and  all  the  surface  of  the  place  was  covered 
with  shavings,  pieces  of  bark,  and  similar  leavings  of 
wood.  Eedwood  was  easily  worked ;  but  often  they  had 
to  go  far  to  find  it.  Some  put  up  temporary  tents  of 
canvas  taken  from  the  wagons.  Others,  especially  the 
unmarried,  who  were  less  careful  of  having  a  roof  above 
their  heads,  and  were  more  averse  to  pulling  stumps, 
began  to  plough  in  places  where  the  forest  had  no  under- 
growth, and  where  oak  and  hickory  were  rarer.  Then 
was  heard  for  the  first  time  since  that  Arkansas  forest 
was  a  forest,  "  Hets,  kso,  bys  !  "  1 

But  in  general  such  a  weight  of  work  fell  on  the  colo- 
nists that  they  knew  not  where  to  put  their  hands  first, 
whether  to  build  houses,  or  clear  the  land,  or  hunt. 

At  the  very  beginning  it  came  out  that  the  agent  of 
the  colony  had  bought  the  land  from  the  railroad  on 
hearsay,  and  had  never  been  there,  otherwise  he  would 
not  have  taken  a  dense  forest,  since  it  was  equally  easy 
to  buy  pieces  of  prairie  partly  covered  with  timber.  He 
and  the  agent  of  the  railroad  came,  it  is  true,  to  the 
place  to  survey  the  sections,  and  show  each  man  his 
own  ;  but  when  they  saw  how  matters  stood  really,  they 
delayed  a  couple  of  days,  then  quarrelled,  went  away  as 
if  for  surveying  tools  to  Clarksville,  and  showed  them- 
selves never  again  in  the  colony. 

Soon  it  appeared  that  some  colonists  had  paid  more 
than  others ;  and,  what  was  worse,  no  man  knew  where 
his  section  lay,  or  how  to  survey  that  which  fell  to  him. 
1  Polish  exclamations  used  in  driving  oxen. 


86  FOR  BREAD. 

The  colonists  remained  without  leadership,  without  any 
authority  which  might  bring  their  affairs  into  order  and 
settle  disputes.  They  did  not  know  well  how  to  work. 

Germans  would  have  begun  surely  to  cut  down  the 
timber  in  company,  and,  after  they  had  cleared  a  certain 
space,  put  up  the  houses  with  combined  labor ;  then  they 
would  have  measured  out  the  land  at  each  house.  But 
every  Mazovian  wanted  to  occupy  his  own  ground  imme- 
diately, put  up  his  own  house,  and*  cut  the  forest  on  his 
own  section.  Besides,  each  man  wanted  to  take  his  place 
in  the  middle  of  the  plain  where  trees  were  fewest,  and 
water  nearest.  From  this  rose  disputes,  which  increased 
quickly,  when  the  wagon  of  a  certain  Griinmanski  ap- 
peared as  if  it  had  fallen  from  the  sky.  This  Pan  Griin- 
manski, in  Cincinnati  where  Germans  live,  called  himself, 
simply  Griinman ;  but  in  Borovina  he  added  "  ski,"  so 
that  his  business  might  go  on  better.  His  wagon  had  a 
lofty  canvas  top,  on  both  sides  of  which  was  a  black 
inscription  in  great  letters,  "  Saloon,"  and  underneath,  in 
smaller  letters,  "  Brandy,  whiskey,  gin." 

How  that  wagon  had  passed  the  dangerous  wilderness 
between  Clarksville  and  Borovina,  how  prairie  adven- 
turers had  not  broken  it,  why  Indians,  who  were  maraud- 
ing in  small  bands,  frequently  very  near  Clarksville,  had 
not  taken  the  scalp  from  Pan  Grunmanski's  head  is  his 
secret ;  it  is  enough  that  he  arrived  and  began  a  per- 
fect business  that  very  day.  But  that  same  day  also  the 
colonists  began  to  quarrel.  To  the  thousand  disputes 
about  sections,  tools,  sheep,  and  places  at  the  fire,  were 
added  very  foolish  things ;  for  instance,  among  the  colo- 
nists a  certain  provincial  American  patriotism  was  roused. 
Those  who  had  come  from  Northern  States  began  to 
praise  their  former  homes  at  the  expense  of  the  colony 
and  of  colonists  from  Southern  States,  and  vice  versa. 


FOR  BREAD.  87 

Where  separation  from  the  mother  country  and  life 
among  strangers  had  eaten  through  the  native  char- 
acter, one  might  have  heard  frequently  this  North 
American  Polonism,  colored  by  the  slang,  "  I  don't  care 
a  d !  " 

"  But  why  praise  your  Southern  country  ? "  asked  a 
young  fellow  from  Chicago.  "  With  us  in  Illinois,  wher- 
ever you  look  is  a  railroad,  and  wherever  you  are  in  a 
car  a  short  mile  brings  you  to  a  city.  You  want  to  farm, 
you  want  to  build  a  house,  you  don't  need  to  gnaw  tim- 
ber ;  you  buy  lumber  and  that  is  the  end  of  it." 

"  With  us  one  canon  is  worth  whole  blocks  in  your 
place." 

"  And  you,  God  d !  What  do  you  touch  me  for  ? 

I  was  there,  sir,  and  I  am  here,  sir,  and  what  sort  of  a 
fellow  are  you  ? " 

"  Quiet,  or  I  will  take  a  shingle,  or  I  will  wet  your 
head  in  the  creek,  if  you  get  mad.  What  do  you  want 
of  me?" 

In  the  colony  evil  was  done  directly ;  that  society 
brought  to  mind  a  drove  of  sheep  without  a  shepherd. 
Quarrels  about  land  grew  more  violent.  It  came  to 
fights  in  which  comrades  of  certain  towns  or  settlements 
joined  against  those  who  came  from  others.  The  more 
experienced,  the  elder  or  wiser  secured,  it  is  true,  respect 
and  importance  gradually ;  but  they  were  not  always 
able  to  keep  them.  Only  in  moments  of  danger  did  the 
common  instinct  of  defence  command  those  colonists  to 
forget  their  quarrels.  Once  on  an  evening  when  a  com- 
pany of  renegade  Indians  stole  sheep,  the  men  rushed 
together  in  pursuit,  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  The 
sheep  were  recovered ;  one  of  the  Indians  was  so  beaten 
that  he  died  soon  after ;  the  most  perfect  harmony 


88  FOR  BREAD. 

reigned  that  day,  but  the  next  morning  there  was  quar- 
relling again  at  the  forest.  Concord  returned  when,  in 
the  evening,  the  fiddler  played,  not  a  dance,  but  various 
songs,  which  each  man  had  heard  long  before  under 
thatched  roofs,  then  conversation  stopped.  All  sur- 
rounded the  musician  in  a  great  circle ;  the  sound  of 
the  forest  accompanied  him ;  the  blazing  fires  hissed  and 
shot  up  sparks ;  some  dropped  their  heads  gloomily  as 
they  stood  there,  the  souls  flew  out  of  them  and  went 
beyond  the  sea.  More  than  once  the  moon  rose  high 
above  the  forest,  and  still  they  were  listening.  But  ex- 
cept these  short  intervals,  everything  became  more  and 
more  unhinged  in  the  colony.  Disorder  increased,  hatred 
burrowed  into  them.  That  little  society,  cast  away 
among  those  forests,  almost  separated  from  the  rest  of 
humanity,  deserted  by  its  leaders,  had  neither  the  power 
nor  the  knowledge  to  help  itself. 

Among  the  colonists  we  find  two  figures  known  to  us : 
the  old  man,  Vavron  Toporek,  and  his  daughter,  Marysia. 
Arriving  in  Arkansas,  they  had  to  share  the  common  lot 
in  Borovina.  Indeed,  at  first  they  were  in  a  better  con- 
dition than  others.  Whatever  a  forest  may  be,  it  is  not 
the  pavement  of  New  York  ;  moreover,  in  New  York  they 
had  nothing ;  here,  they  had  a  wagon,  some  live-stock 
bought  cheaply  in  Clarksville,  and  a  few  tools  for  field- 
work.  There,  a  terrible  yearning  was  gnawing  them  ; 
here,  hard  work  did  not  let  the  mind  wander  from  the 
present. 

The  old  man  felled  trees  from  morning  till  evening ;  he 
hewed  off  chips  and  prepared  logs  for  the  cottage.  The 
girl  washed  clothes  in  the  river,  made  a  fire,  cooked; 
but,  in  spite  of  heat,  exercise  and  the  air  of  the  forest 
obliterated  gradually  the  traces  of  her  sickness  which 
she  had  incurred  through  want  in  New  York.  The 


FOR  BREAD.  89 

burning  breeze  from  Texas  banned  her  pale  face  and 
covered  it  with  a  slightly  golden  hue.  Young  men  from 
San  Antonio,  and  from  the  Great  Lakes,  who  jumped  at 
each  other  with  fists  on  any  pretext,  were  agreed  only  in 
this,  that  Marysia's  eyes  looked  from  under  her  bright 
hair  as  star-thistles  in  wheat,  and  that  she  was  the  pret- 
tiest girl  that  human  eye  had  ever  seen. 

The  beauty  of  Marysia  was  useful  to  Vavron.  He 
picked  out  for  himself  a  strip  of  the  nicest  forest,  and  no 
one  opposed  him,  for  all  the  young  men  were  on  his  side. 
More  than  one  helped  him  in  the  felling  of  trees,  the 
hewing  of  beams,  or  in  putting  them  in  place  for  hewing ; 
but  the  old  man,  since  he  was  shrewd,  knew  their  reasons, 
and  said  from  time  to  time,  — 

"My  daughter  walks  the  plain  like  a  lily,  like  a  lady, 
like  a  queen.  To  whom  I  wish,  to  him  I  will  give  her ; 
but  I  shall  not  give  her  to  this  man  or  that,  for  she  is  a 
landowner's  daughter.  Whoso  will  bow  lower  and  please 
better,  to  him  I  will  give  her,  not  to  a  straggler." 

So  whoever  helped  Vavron  thought  that  he  was  help- 
ing himself. 

Vavron  was  better  off  even  than  others ;  and  in  general 
he  would  have  been  quite  well  to  do  if  the  colony  had 
had  any  future  before  it.  But  things  grew  worse  daily. 
One  week  passed  and  another.  Eound  about  the  plain 
they  cut  trees ;  the  ground  was  covered  with  chips ;  here 
and  there  rose  the  yellow  walls  of  houses  ;  but  what  was 
done  was  a  trifle  in  comparison  with  what  those  men 
should  have  done.  The  green  wall  of  the  forest  yielded 
only  slowly  before  the  axes.  Those  who  went  into 
the  forest  more  deeply  brought  back  strange  tidings : 
that  that  forest  had  no  end  whatever ;  that  farther  on 
there  were  terrible  swamps  and  bayous  in  it,  morasses, 
and  some  kind  of  sleeping  water  under  the  trees ;  that 


90  FOR  BREAD. 

wonderful  creatures  of  some  sort  were  dwelling  there ; 
that  certain  steaming  things,  like  spirits,  pushed  along 
through  the  thickets,  serpents  of  some  kind  hissed  there ; 
that  voices  cried,  "  Do  not  come  ! "  Certain  imps  seized 
men  by  the  clothing  and  would  not  let  them  go.  A 
young  man  from  Chicago  declared  that  he  had  seen  the 
very  devil  in  person,  that  Satan  raised  his  terrible  shaggy 
head  from  the  mud  and  snorted  at  him  so  that  he  was 
barely  able  to  run  home. 

A  colonist  from  Texas  explained  to  the  man  from 
Chicago  that  he  must  have  seen  a  buffalo ;  but  he  would 
not  believe  this.  So  the  superstition  of  fear  added  to  the 
terrible  position.  A  few  days  after  seeing  the  devil,  it 
happened  that  two  smart  young  men  went  into  the  forest 
and  were  seen  no  more.  Some  people  fell  ill  with  pain  in 
the  back  from  overwork,  and  then  fever  attacked  them. 
Quarrels  about  division  of  land  increased  to  the  degree 
that  it  came  to  wounds,  blood,  and  battles.  If  any  man 
failed  to  brand  his  cattle,  others  denied  his  ownership. 
The  camp  lost  cohesion;  wagons  were  removed  to  all 
corners  of  the  plain,  so  as  to  be  as  far  from  one  another 
as  possible.  They  could  not  agree  as  to  who  should  go 
out  to  guard  the  cattle ;  sheep  began  to  die. 

Meanwhile  one  thing  became  more  and  more  evident : 
before  the  grain  sown  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  would  be 
green,  and  the  increase  of  cattle  come,  the.  supply  of  pro- 
visions would  fail,  and  hunger  appear.  Despair  seized 
people.  The  sound  of  axes  in  the  forest  decreased,  for 
patience  and  courage  had  begun  to  fail.  Every  man 
would  have  continued  his  work  if  some  one  could  have 
said  to  him,  "  Here,  this  is  thine  forever."  But  no  one 
knew  what  was  his,  and  what  was  not  his.  The  just 
complaints  against  leaders  increased.  People  said  that 
they  had  been  led  into  the  wilderness  to  die  for  nothing. 


FOR  BREAD.  91 

Whoever  had  some  money  yet  sat  in  his  wagon  and  drove 
away  to  Clarksville.  But  there  were  more  who,  having 
put  their  last  copper  into  the  colony,  had  nothing  with 
which  to  return  to  their  former  homes.  These  wrung 
their  hands,  seeing  certain  ruin. 

At  last  the  axes  stopped  cutting ;  but  the  forest 
sounded  as  if  jeering  at  men's  helplessness.  "Cut  for 
two  years,  and  then  die  of  hunger,"  said  man  to  man. 
But  the  forest  sounded  as  if  it  were  jeering.  A  certain 
evening  Vavron  came  to  Marysia  and  said,  — 

"  I  see  that  everything  is  going  to  ruin,  and  we  also 
are  going  to  ruin." 

"  The  will  of  God,"  answered  the  girl.  "  He  has  been 
merciful  and  will  not  desert  us  now." 

Thus  speaking,  she  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  the  stars, 
and  in  the  gleams  of  the  fire  she  looked  like  a  church 
image.  And  the  young  men  from  Chicago,  and  the 
hunters  from  Texas,  looking  at  her,  said, — 

"  And  we  will  not  desert  thee,  Marysia,  thou  morning 
dawn." 

She  thought  to  herself  that  there  was  only  one  with 
whom  she  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  earth,  —  one,  Yasko 
in  Lipintse.  But  he,  though  he  had  promised  to  swim 
through  the  sea  after  her,  to  fly  as  a  bird  after  her,  roll 
as  a  ring  after  her  on  the  highway,  had  not  swum,  had 
not  flown,  he  alone  had  deserted  her,  hapless  girl. 

Marysia  could  not  but  know  that  evil  was  going  on  in 
the  colony,  but  she  had  been  in  such  distress,  God  had 
freed  her  from  such  abysses ;  her  soul  had  become  so 
serene  in  misfortune  that  nothing  could  deprive  her  of 
faith  in  Heaven's  aid. 

Besides  she  remembered  that  the  old  gentleman  in 
New  York,  who  had  helped  them  to  rise  out  of  misery 
and  reach  that  place,  had  given  her  his  card,  saying,  that 


92  FOR   BREAD. 

should  misfortune  oppress  her  to  call  to  him,  he  would 
save  her  always. 

Every  day  brought  new  peril  for  the  colony.  People 
flew  from  it  by  night,  and  what  happened  to  them  it  is 
difficult  to  tell.  Round  about  the  forest  sounded  and 
mocked. 

At  last  old  Vavron  fell  ill  from  exertion.  Pain  began 
to  pass  through  his  spine.  For  two  days  he  paid  no 
attention  to  it,  but  on  the  third  he  could  not  rise.  The 
girl  went  to  the  forest,  collected  moss  and  covered  with 
it  the  wall  of  the  house,  which  was  ready  and  lying  on 
the  grass ;  she  placed  her  father  on  the  moss  and  pre- 
pared for  him  medicine  with  whiskey. 

"  Marysia,"  muttered  the  old  man,  "  death  is  coming  to 
me  now  through  the  forest ;  thou  wilt  remain  alone  in 
the  world,  poor  orphan.  God  is  punishing  me  for  my 
grievous  sins ;  I  took  thee  beyond  the  sea,  and  ruined 
thee.  Painful  will  my  end  be." 

"  Father,"  answered  the  girl,  "  God  would  have  pun- 
ished me  if  I  had  not  come  with  you." 

"  If  thou  wert  not  alone  when  I  leave  thee,  if  I  might 
bless  thee  for  marriage,  T  should  die  more  easily.  Marysia, 
take  Black  Orlik  as  husband;  he  is  geod,  he  will  not 
desert  thee." 

Black  Orlik,  an  unerring  hunter,  from  Texas,  who 
heard  this,  threw  himself  on  his  knees  at  once. 

"  0  father !  bless  us  ! "  said  he,  "  I  love  this  maiden 
as  my  own  life.  I  know  the  forest,  and  I  will  not  let  her 
die." 

Saying  this  he  looked  with  his  falcon  eyes  on  Marysia 
as  on  a  rainbow ;  but  she,  bending  down  to  the  feet  of  her 
father,  said,  — 

"  Do  not  force  me,  father,  I  shall  be  his  whom  I  prom- 
ised, or  no  man's." 


FOR  BREAD.  93 

"  Thou  wilt  not  be  his  whom  thou  hast  promised,  for  I 
will  kill  him.  Thou  must  be  mine,  or  else  no  man's," 
answered  Orlik.  "  All  will  perish  here ;  thou  wilt  perish 
with  them  unless  I  rescue  thee." 

Orlik  was  not  mistaken.  The  colony  was  going  to 
nothing ;  again  a  week  passed  and  a  second  week.  Sup- 
plies were  near  the  end.  They  had  begun  to  kill  working 
cattle.  The  fever  seized  new  victims  day  by  day ;  people 
began  now  to  curse,  now  to  cry  in  loud  voices  to  Heaven 
for  deliverance. 

One  Sunday,  the  old  men,  boys,  women,  and  children, 
all  knelt  on  the  ground  and  sang  a  supplication.  A  hun- 
dred voices  repeated,  "Holy  God,  Holy  Mighty,  Holy 
and  Invincible,  have  mercy  on  us !  "  The  forest  ceased 
to  move,  ceased  to  sound,  and  listened.  Only  when  the 
hymn  was  ended  did  the  forest  sound  again,  as  if  speak- 
ing terribly.  "  Here  I  am  king ;  here  I  am  lord ;  here  I 
am  the  mightiest." 

But  Orlik,  who  knew  the  forest,  fastened  his  black 
eyes  on  it,  looked  at  it  somehow  strangely,  and  then  said 
aloud,  — 

"  Well,  let  us  grapple." 

The  people  looked  in  turn  at  Orlik,  and  a  certain  con- 
solation entered  their  hearts.  Those  who  knew  him 
when  in  Texas  had  great  trust  in  the  man,  for  he  was 
famed  even  in  Texas.  He  had  really  grown  wild  in  the 
prairies,  and  was  as  strong  as  an  oak-tree.  He  used 
to  go  alone  against  a  bear.  In  San  Antonio,  where  he 
had  lived  before,  they  knew  well  that  sometimes,  when 
he  took  a  gun  and  went  to  the  desert,  he  was  absent 
for  two  months,  and  always  returned  in  health,  sound. 
They  nicknamed  him  "  Black,"  because  he  was  burned 
from  the  sun.  They  said  even  that  on  the  Mexican 
boundary  he  had  been  a  bandit,  but  that  was  untrue. 


94  FOR  BREAD. 

He  brought  back  only  skins;  he  brought  Indian  scalps 
sometimes  till  the  local  priest  threatened  to  curse  him. 
Now  in  Borovina  he  was  the  only  man  who  cared  for 
nothing  and  was  concerned  about  nothing.  The  forest 
gave  him  food  and  drink ;  the  forest  clothed  him.  So 
when  people  began  to  flee  and  lose  their  heads,  he  took 
everything  in  hand,  and  managed  like  a  gray  goose  in 
the  sky,  having  behind  him  all  who  were  from  Texas. 
When,  after  the  prayer,  he  challenged  the  forest,  people 
thought  to  themselves  :  "  He  will  invent  something." 

Meanwhile  the  sun  went  down.  High  among  the 
black  branches  of  the  hickories  the  brightness  of  gold 
shone  for  a  while  yet,  then  reddened,  and  was  quenched. 
The  wind  shifted  to  the  south  at  nightfall.  Orlik  took 
his  gun  and  went  to  the  forest. 

Night  had  begun  when,  in  the  dark  distance,  people 
saw  as  it  were  a  great  golden  star,  as  it  were  a  coming 
dawn,  or  a  sun  which  rose  with  tremendous  swiftness, 
spreading  red  and  bloody  light. 

"  The  forest  is  burning !  The  forest  is  burning ! " 
shouted  people  in  the  camp. 

Clouds  of  birds  rose  with  a  clatter  from  every  side  of 
the  forest,  screaming,  croaking,  twittering.  Cattle  in  the 
camp  began  to  bellow  pitifully ;  dogs  howled ;  people  ran 
about  in  terror,  not  knowing  but  the  fire  might  come  on 
them,  though  the  strong  south  wind  could  only  drive 
the  flames  away  from  the  plain.  Meanwhile  in  the  dis- 
tance rose  a  second  red  star,  then  a  third.  Both  of  these 
were  merged  quickly  in  the  first,  and  the  conflagration 
roared  on  over  increasing  expanses.  The  flames  spread 
like  water ;  they  ran  along  dry,  interlaced  lianas  and  wild 
grape-vines  ;  the  forest  trembled.  The  wind  tore  burning 
leaves  away  and  bore  them,  like  fiery  birds,  farther  and 
farther. 


FOR  BREAD.  95 

Hickories  burst  in  the  fire  with  a  report  like  the 
sound  of  cannon.  Eed  serpents  of  fire  wound  them- 
selves over  the  resinous  bark  of  the  wilderness.  Hissing, 
roaring,  the  breaking  of  limbs,  the  deep  howl  of  flames, 
mingled  with  the  uproar  of  birds,  and  the  bellowing  of 
beasts  filled  the  air.  Heaven-touching  trees  tottered  like 
flaming  pillars  and  columns.  Climbing  plants,  burned 
at  the  windings,  broke  away  from  the  trees  and,  swing- 
ing terribly,  like  satanic  arms,  passed  forward  sparks  and 
fire  from  tree  to  tree. 

The  sky  grew  red  as  if  another  conflagration  were 
there.  It  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  Then  all  the  flames 
blended  into  one  sea  of  fire,  and  went  through  the  forest 
like  the  breathing  of  death,  or  the  anger  of  God. 

Smoke,  heat,  and  the  odor  of  burning  filled  the  air. 
People  in  the  camp,  though  no  danger  threatened  them, 
shouted  and  cried  to  one  another  ;  when  all  at  once,  from 
the  direction  of  the  burning,  came  Orlik  in  the  sparks, 
in  the  glare.  His  face  was  darkened  with  smoke,  and 
terrible.  When  all  stood  around  him  in  a  circle,  he 
leaned  on  his  musket,  and  said,  — 

"  You  will  not  cut  timber ;  I  have  burned  the  forest. 
To-morrow  you  will  have  on  that  side  fields,  as  many 
as  each  man  may  wish  for."  Then,  approaching  Marysia, 
he  said,  — 

"  You  must  be  mine ;  it  was  I  who  burnt  the  forest. 
Who  here  is  stronger  than  I  ? " 

The  girl  shivered  through  her  whole  frame,  for  the 
conflagration  shone  in  the  eyes  of  Orlik,  and  he  seemed 
to  her  terrible.  For  the  first  time  since  their  coming, 
she  thanked  God  that  Yasko  was  far  away  in  Lipintse. 

Meanwhile  the  roaring  conflagration  receded  farther 
and  farther.  The  dawn  was  cloudy,  and  threatened  rain. 

At  daybreak,  some  people  went  to  look  at  the  burned 


96  FOR  BREAD. 

region ;  but  they  could  not  go  near,  because  of  heat. 
The  second  day,  smoke  like  a  fog  filled  the  air,  so  that 
one  man  could  not  see  another  twenty  steps  distant. 
That  night  rain  began,  which  soon  passed  into  a  frightful 
downpour.  Perhaps  the  fire,  by  disturbing  the  air,  had 
caused  the  settling  of  clouds ;  but,  besides,  it  was  the 
spring  season,  during  which  on  the  lower  Mississippi,  at 
the  meeting  of  the  Arkansas  and  Eed  River,  enormous 
rains  fall.  Another  cause  of  these  rains  is  the  evapora- 
tion of  water,  which,  in  Arkansas,  covers  the  whole 
country  in  the  form  of  swamps,  small  lakes,  and  streams, 
which  are  increased  in  spring  by  the  melting  of  snow  on 
the  distant  mountains. 

The  whole  plain  grew  soft,  and  turned  gradually  into 
a  great  pond.  People  who  had  been  wet  for  whole  days 
now  fell  ill.  Some  left  the  colony  for  Clarksville ;  but 
they  returned  quickly,  with  news  that  the  river  had  risen, 
that  the  ford  was  impassable. 

The  condition  of  affairs  had  grown  terrible ;  a  month 
had  passed  since  the  coming  of  the  colonists ;  supplies 
might  give  out,  and  it  was  impossible  to  replenish  them 
from  Clarksville.  But  hunger  threatened  Vavron  and 
Marysia  less  than  others,  for  the  strong  hand  of  Orlik 
was  over  them.  Every  morning  he  brought  to  the  wall 
of  the  house  on  which  Vavron  was  lying  game,  either 
shot  or  trapped  by  him.  Orlik  put  up  his  own  tent  to 
protect  the  old  man  and  Marysia  from  rain.  They  had 
to  accept  the  assistance  which  he  almost  imposed,  and 
be  bound  by  gratitude ;  he  would  not  take  pay,  he  wanted 
nothing  but  Marysia. 

"  Am  I  the  only  one  on  earth  ? "  pleaded  the  girl. 
"'Go  seek  some  one  else,  since  I  love  another." 

"  Though  I  should  walk  the  world  through,"  said 
Orlik,  "  I  should  not  find  another  like  thee.  For  me 


FOR  BREAD.  97 

thou  art  the  only  one,  and  must  be  mine.  What  wilt 
thou  do  when  thy  father  dies  ?  Thou  wilt  come  to  me 
thyself,  and  I  will  take  thee,  as  a  wolf  takes  a  lamb ;  I 
will  bear  thee  to  the  forest,  but  I  will  not  eat  thee. 
Thou  art  mine,  thou  alone!  Who  will  forbid  me  to 
take  thee  ?  Whom  do  I  fear  in  this  place  ?  Let  thy 
Yasko  come,  I  want  him." 

As  to  Vavron,  Orlik  seemed  to  be  right.  The  old  man 
grew  worse  and  worse ;  at  times  he  was  raving,  and  spoke 
of  his  sins,  of  Lipintse,  and  said  that  God  would  not  let 
him  see  it  again.  Marysia  shed  tears  for  him,  and  for 
herself.  Orlik's  promise  that  if  she  would  marry  him, 
he  would  go  with  her,  even  to  Lipintse,  was  bitterness, 
not  consolation.  To  return  to  Lipintse  where  Yasko 
was,  and  return  there  another's,  not  for  anything  ! — better 
die  under  the  first  tree  she  came  to.  She  thought  that  it 
would  end  thus. 

A  new  trial  fell  on  the  colony. 

Rain  poured  down  more  and  more.  One  dark  night, 
when  Orlik  had  gone  to  the  forest  as  usual,  a  shrill, 
despairing  cry  was  heard  in  the  camp,  "  Water !  water  !  " 
When  the  people  rubbed  their  sleepy  eyes,  they  saw 
in  the  darkness,  as  far  as  vision  extended,  one  white 
plain,  plashing  under  the  downpour,  and  moved  by  the 
wind.  The  broken  and  dimmed  light  of  night  showed  a 
steel-like  reflection  on  the  wrinkles  and  ripples  of  the 
water.  On  the  side  of  the  forest,  where  stumps  were 
sticking  up,  and  where,  from  the  burnt  forest,  was  heard 
the  plashing  and  sound  of  new  waves  flowing,  as  it  seemed, 
with  great  impetus.  A  cry  rose  in  the  whole  camp. 
Women  and  children  took  refuge  in  the  wagons;  men 
ran  with  all  their  might  to  the  western  side  of  the  plain, 
where  the  trees  were  not  cut.  The  water  hardly  reached 
to  their  knees,  but  was  rising  rapidly.  The  sound  from 

7 


98  FOR  BREAD. 

the  side  of  the  forest  increased,  and  was  blended  with 
shouts  of  alarm,  with  the  calling  of  names,  and  with 
prayers  for  rescue.  Soon  larger  animals  began  to  retreat 
from  place  to  place  before  the  weight  of  the  water.  It 
was  evident  that  the  force  of  the  current  was  increasing. 
Sheep  swam  along,  and,  with  plaintive  bleating,  called 
for  assistance,  till  they  vanished,  carried  off  toward  the 
trees.  Eain  poured  as  if  from  a  bucket,  and  became 
every  moment  more  terrible.  The  distant  sound  changed 
into  one  immense  thunder  and  roar  of  mad  waves ;  wagons 
trembled  under  the  pressure  of  them.  It  was  evident 
that  this  was  no  common  rainfall,  but  that  the  Arkansas 
Eiver,  and  all  streams  running  into  it,  had  overflown. 
That  was  a  deluge,  a  tearing  out  of  trees  by  the  roots,  a 
rending  of  forests,  a  terror,  an  unchaining  of  elements, 
darkness,  death. 

One  wagon,  standing  near  the  burnt  forest,  turned  over. 
In  answer  to  the  piercing  screams  for  help  from  the 
women  enclosed  in  it,  a  few  dark  figures  rushed  out  of 
the  forest ;  but  the  water  swept  these  men  away,  whirled 
them  around,  and  bore  them  toward  the  trees,  to  destruc- 
tion. On  other  wagons  other  men  climbed  to  the  canvas 
coverings.  The  rain  roared  more  and  more ;  greater  and 
greater  darkness  fell  on  that  gloomy  plain.  At  moments 
some  beam  with  a  human  figure  clinging  to  it  shot  past, 
hurled  up  and  down ;  at  moments  the  dark  figure  of  a 
beast,  or  a  man,  emerged ;  sometimes  an  arm  was  thrust 
up  from  the  deluge  and  then  fell  back  forever. 

The  water  roared  with  increasing  rage,  and  drowned 
everything,  —  drowned  the  bellows  of  perishing  beasts, 
and  the  cries  "  Jesus  !  Jesus !  Mary  ! "  On  the  plain  were 
formed  eddies  and  whirlpools ;  the  wagons  vanished. 

And  Vavron  and  Marysia  ?  That  house  wall  on  which 
the  old  man  lay,  under  Orlik's  tent,  saved  them,  for  it 


FOR  BREAD.  99 

floated  on  like  a  raft.  The  water  carried  it  around  the 
whole  field,  and  bore  it  toward  the  forest,  there  knocked 
it  against  one  tree  and  another,  and,  pushing  it  finally  into 
the  current  of  the  river,  bore  it  farther  in  the  darkness. 

The  girl,  kneeling  near  her  old  father,  raised  her  hands 
to  Heaven,  calling  for  salvation  ;  but  only  blows  of  waves 
driven  by  the  wind  gave  her  answer.  The  tent  was  torn 
away,  and  the  raft  itself  might  be  broken  any  moment, 
since  before  and  behind  were  floating  uprooted  trees, 
which  might  crush  or  upset  it. 

At  last  it  stuck  in  the  branches  of  some  tree,  only  the 
top  of  which  was  visible  above  water ;  out  of  that  top  at 
that  moment  came  the  voice  of  a  man,  — 

"  Take  my  gun  and  stand  on  the  other  side,  so  the  raft 
will  not  tip  when  I  jump  on  it." 

She  and  Vavron  had  barely  done  what  was  commanded, 
when  some  figure  sprang  from  a  limb  to  the  raft. 

It  was  Orlik. 

"  Marysia,"  said  he,  "  as  I  have  said,  I  will  not  leave 
thee.  God  aid  me  !  I  will  bring  thee  out  of  this  deep 
water  also." 

With  the  hatchet  which  he  had  he  cut  a  straight  limb 
from  the  tree,  trimmed  it  in  a  twinkle,  pushed  the  raft 
away,  and  paddled. 

When  he  had  worked  into  the  regular  current,  they 
went  on  with  lightning  speed.  Whither  ?  —  they  knew 
not,  but  on  they  went. 

Orlik  from  time  to  time  pushed  away  trees,  branches, 
or  he  turned  the  raft  to  avoid  a  standing  tree.  His 
gigantic  strength  seemed  to  increase.  His  eyes,  in  spite 
of  the  darkness,  descried  every  danger.  Hour  succeeded 
hour.  Every  other  would  have  fallen  from  weariness, 
but  in  him  toil  left  no  trace.  Toward  morning  they  came 
out  of  the  forest,  for  no  tree-tops  were  visible.  But  the 


100  FOR  BREAD. 

whole  circle  of  the  world  seemed  one  sea.  Immense 
whirls  of  yellow,  foaming  water  went  around  with  a  roar 
on  that  empty  flatness. 

Daylight  grew  clearer.  Orlik,  seeing  no  tree  in  the 
neighborhood,  ceased  paddling  for  a  moment  and  turned 
to  Marysia,  — 

"  Marysia,  thou  art  mine  now,  for  I  snatched  thee  from 
death." 

His  head  was  uncovered,  and  his  face,  wet  and  flushed 
from  heat,  warmed  by  the  battle  with  the  flood,  it  had 
such  an  expression  of  strength  that  Marysia  for  the  first 
time  dared  not  answer  that  she  had  promised  another. 

"  Marysia,"  said  he,  softly,  "  Marysia  of  my  heart !  " 

"  Where  are  -we  floating  to  ? "  asked  she,  wishing  to 
change  the  conversation. 

"What  care  I,  if  with  thee,  my  beloved." 

"  Paddle  on,  while  death  is  before  us." 

Orlik  paddled  again. 

Vavron  felt  worse  and  worse.  At  times  he  had  a  fever, 
at  times  it  left  him;  but  he  weakened.  The  suffering 
was  too  great  for  his  worn-out,  old  body.  He  was 
approaching  the  end,  eternal  relief,  and  great  peace.  At 
midday  he  woke,  and  said,  — 

"Marysia,  I  shall  not  wait  till  to-morrow.  Oi,  my 
daughter,  would  to  the  Lord  that  I  had  not  left  Lipintse, 
and  had  not  brought  thee  here !  But  God  is  merciful !  I 
have  suffered  not  a  little ;  He  will  forgive  me  my  sins. 
Bury  me,  if  thou  shalt  be  able,  and  let  Orlik  take  thee  to 
the  old  gentleman  in  New  York.  He  is  a  good  man ;  he 
will  pity  thee  and  give  thee  means  for  the  road,  and  thou 
wilt  return  to  Lipintse.  I  shall  never  return.  God,  Thou 
the  merciful,  let  my  soul  fly  there  as  a  bird  and  even  look 
at  the  place ! " 

Here  delirium  seized  him  again,  and  he  began  to  speak, 


FOR  BREAD.  101 

"To  Thy  protection  I  flee,  Holy  Mother  of  God !  "  cried  he, 
on  a  sudden.  "  Do  not  throw  me  into  the  water,  for  I  am 
not  a  dog ! "  and  then,  evidently,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  had  wished  to  drown  Marysia  because  of  their  misery, 
for  again  he  cried,  "  My  child,  forgive !  forgive  ! " 

She,  poor  thing,  was  lying  near  his  head,  sobbing ; 
Orlik  was  paddling,  and  tears  were  stopping  his  throat. 

In  the  evening  it  became  clear.  The  sun,  at  the  moment 
of  setting,  appeared  over  the  flooded  country,  and  was 
reflected  in  the  water  with  a  long,  golden  streak.  The  old 
man  was  dying.  But  God  took  pity  on  him,  and  gave 
him  a  peaceful  death.  At  first  he  said,  in  a  sad  voice  : 

"  I  went  away  from  Poland,  from  that  land  over  there," 
but  afterward,  in  the  wandering  of  his  fever,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  returning  to  it.  He  thought  that  the 
old  gentleman  in  New  York  had  given  him  money  for  the 
road,  and  to  buy  land,  so  he  and  Marysia  were  going 
back.  They  are  on  the  ocean ;  the  steamer  is  sailing  night 
and  day ;  the  sailors  are  singing.  Then  he  sees  the  port 
in  Hamburg  from  which  they  had  sailed  ;  various  places 
appear  before  his  eyes.  German  speech  is  heard  around 
him;  but  the  train  is  flying  onward,  so  Vavron  feels  that  he 
is  nearer  and  nearer  home ;  a  sure  joy  swells  his  breast ; 
another  atmosphere,  beloved,  greets  him  from  his  native 
place.  What  is  that  ?  —  the  boundary  !  The  poor  peasant 
heart  is  beating  like  a  hammer.  He  is  going  on  !  0 
God !  0  God !  and  here  are  the  fields  of  the  Matseks,  and 
their  pear-trees ;  here  are  gray  cottages  and  the  church. 
There  a  villager  follows  the  plough  in  his  sheepskin  cap. 
He  stretches  his  hands  to  him  from  the  train.  0  man .' 
0  man  !  —  I  cannot  speak.  They  go  farther.  But  what 
is  that  ?  That  is  Pryremble,  and  beyond  Pryremble  is 
Lipintse.  He  and  Marysia  are  moving  along  the  road, 
and  weeping  from  joy.  It  is  spring.  The  wheat  is  in 


102  FOR   BREAD. 

blossom ;  the  beetles  are  droning  in  the  air ;  in  Pryremble 
they  are  ringing  the  Angelus.  0  Jesus  !  Jesus !  why  is 
there  so  much  happiness  for  him,  sinful  man  ?  Over  that 
hill,  and  there  a  cross  and  guide-post,  and  the  boundary  of 
Lipintse.  They  are  not  walking  now,  but  flying  as  if  on 
wings ;  now  they  are  on  the  hill,  at  the  cross,  at  the  guide- 
post.  The  man  throws  himself  on  the  ground ;  he  bellows 
from  happiness  ;  he  kisses  the  ground,  and  crawling  up  to 
the  cross  embraces  it,  —  he  is  in  Lipintse.  Yes.  He  is 
now  in  Lipintse,  for  only  his  dead  body  is  resting  on  that 
stray  raft  on  the  flood  of  water ;  his  soul  has  flown  to  the 
place  of  its  rest  and  its  happiness. 

In  vain  did  the  girl  work  over  him.  "  Father,  father !  " 
Poor  Marysia,  he  will  not  return  to  thee.  He  is  too 
happy  in  Lipintse. 

Night  came.  The  stick  was  dropping  out  of  Orlik's 
hand  from  fatigue ;  hunger  tormented  him.  Marysia, 
kneeling  over  her  father's  body,  was  repeating  with  broken 
voice  an  "  Our  Father  ; "  all  round,  to  the  remotest  verges 
of  the  horizon,  there  was  nothing  but  water. 

They  had  come  out  above  the  bed  of  some  large  river, 
for  the  current  was  bearing  them  away  again  quickly.  It 
was  impossible  to  steer  the  raft.  Perhaps  that  was  merely 
a  current  circling  about  a  hollow  in  the  prairie,  for  fre- 
quently it  carried  them  in  a  circle.  Orlik  felt  that  his 
strength  was  deserting  him.  On  a  sudden  he  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and  cried,  — 

"  By  the  wounds  of  Christ,  there  is  a  light !  " 

Marysia  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  he  had 
stretched  his  arm.  In  fact  some  light  gleamed  in  the 
distance ;  from  it  a  line  was  reflected  on  the  water. 

"  That  is  a  boat  from  Clarksville  ! "  cried  Orlik,  "  sent 
out  to  save  people.  If  only  it  would  not  miss  us ;  Marysia, 
I  will  save  thee.  Hoop  !  hoop  ! " 


FOR  BREAD.  103 

At  the  same  time  he  paddled  with  all  his  might. 
Indeed  the  flame  increased,  and  in  the  red  light  from  it 
something  which  looked  like  a  large  boat  was  outlined. 
It  was  very  far  away  yet,  but  they  were  approaching 
each  other.  After  a  time,  however,  Orlik  saw  that  the 
boat  was  not  pushing  forward ;  the  raft  had  floated  into 
a  great  and  broad  current,  going  in  a  direction  opposite  to 
that  of  the  boat. 

All  at  once  the  pole  broke  in  Orlik's  hand  from  pres- 
sure. They  were  without  an  oar.  The  current  carried 
them  farther  and  farther ;  the  light  decreased. 

Happily  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  raft  struck  a 
lone  tree  in  the  prairie,  and  it  stuck  in  the  branches. 
Both  cried  for  help,  but  the  noise  of  the  current  extin- 
guished their  voices. 

"I  will  shoot,"  said  Orlik;  "they  will  see  the  light, 
they  will  hear  the  report." 

He  had  barely  thought  of  it  when  he  raised  the  barrel 
of  his  musket,  but  instead  of  a  report  came  the  dull  click 
of  the  hammer.  The  powder  was  wet. 

Orlik  threw  himself  at  full  length  on  the  raft.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  done.  He  lay  as  if  dead  for  a  while, 
then  he  rose,  and  said,  — 

"  Marysia,  I  would  have  taken  another  girl  long  ago,  in 
spite  of  her,  and  carried  her  to  the  forest.  I  thought  to 
do  so  with  thee  ;  but  I  dared  not,  I  loved  thee.  I  went 
alone  about  the  world  like  a  wolf,  and  the  common  herd 
feared  rne,  but  I  feared  thee.  Marysia!  Thou  must 
have  given  me  some  philter  ?  But  thou  wilt  not  marry 
me :  death  is  better !  I  will  save  thee,  or  perish ;  but  if  I 
perish,  do  thou  of  my  heart  take  pity  and  say  an  '  Our 
Father '  for  Orlik.  In  what  have  I  offended  thee  ?  I 
have  done  thee  no  wrong.  Ei !  Marysia,  Marysia,  fare- 
well, thou  my  love  and  my  sun !  —  " 


104  FOR  BREAD. 

And  before  she  had  noted  what  he  wished  to  do,  he 
threw  himself  into  the  water  and  began  to  swim.  For  a 
while  she  saw  his  head  in  the  darkness,  and  his  arms 
breaking  the  water  against  the  current,  for  he  was  a 
strong  swimmer.  But  soon  he  disappeared  from  her  eyes 
He  was  swimming  to  the  boat  to  find  rescue  for  her. 
The  swift  current  hampered  his  movements,  as  if  some  one 
were  dragging  him  from  behind ;  he  pulled  himself  out, 
pushed  forward.  If  he  could  avoid  that  current,  if  he 
could  strike  another,  a  favoring  one,  he  would  swim  to 
the  boat,  he  would  do  so  most  certainly.  Meanwhile,  in 
spite  of  superhuman  efforts,  he  could  move  only  slowly. 
Thick,  yellowish  water,  often  threw  foam  in  his  eyes ; 
then  he  raised  his  head,  took  breath,  and  strained  his 
eyes  in  the  darkness  to  see  where  the  boat  with  the 
light  was.  Sometimes  a  stronger  wave  pushed  him  back, 
sometimes  it  hurled  him  upward ;  he  breathed  with 
increasing  difficulty ;  he  felt  that  his  knees  were  stiffen- 
ing. He  thought,  "  I  shall  not  swim  there  ; "  then  some- 
thing whispered  in  his  ear,  as  if  it  were  the  beloved  voice 
of  Marysia,  "  Save  me  ! "  and  again  he  cut  the  water 
with  his  hands  desperately.  His  cheeks  swelled ;  his 
mouth  threw  out  water ;  his  eyes  were  protruding  from 
his  head.  If  he  should  turn,  he  could  swim  back  to  the 
raft  with  the  current ;  but  he  did  not  even  think  of  doing 
so,  for  the  light  of  the  boat  was  nearer  and  nearer.  In 
fact  the  boat  was  coming  toward  him,  borne  by  the  same 
current  with  which  he  was  struggling.  All  at  once  he 
felt  that  his  knees  and  his  legs  were  stiff  altogether.  A 
few  more  desperate  efforts,  the  boat  ever  nearer,  "  Help  ! 
Eescue ! " 

The  last  word  was  drowned  by  the  water  which  filled 
his  throat.  He  sank,  a  wave  passed  over  his  head ;  but 
he  swam  out  again.  The  boat  was  right  there,  right 


FOR  BREAD.  105 

there.  He  hears  the  plash  and  the  noise  of  the  oars  in 
the  rowlocks ;  for  the  last  time  he  strains  his  voice  and 
cries  for  help. 

They  hear  him,  for  the  plash  becomes  quicker. 

But  Orlik  went  down  again ;  an  immense  eddy  bore 
him  away.  For  a  moment  yet  he  was  black  on  the 
wave,  then  one  hand  rose  above  the  water,  after  that  the 
other,  and  then  he  vanished. 

Meanwhile  Marysia,  alone  on  the  raft  with  the  corpse 
of  her  father,  was  looking  at  the  distant  light  like  a 
person  demented. 

But  the  current  bore  it  toward  her.  She  saw  the  boat 
with  a  number  of  oars,  which  in  the  light  moved  like 
the  red  legs  of  a  giant  worm.  Marysia  began  to  call 
desperately. 

"  Eh,  Smith,"  said  some  voice  in  English.  "  Hang  me, 
if  I  don't  hear  cries  for  help,  and  if  I  don't  hear  them 
a  second  time." 

After  a  while  strong  arms  bore  Marysia  to  the  boat ; 
but  Orlik  was  not  there. 

Two  months  later  Marysia  came  out  of  the  hospital  in 
Little  Rock,  and,  with  money  collected  by  kind  people, 
she  went  to  New  York. 

But  this  money  was  not  enough.  She  had  to  make  a 
part  of  the  road  on  foot ;  but,  speaking  a  little  English 
now,  she  was  able  to  beg  of  conductors  to  take  her  free. 
Many  people  had  pity  on  the  poor,  sick,  pallid  girl,  with 
the  great  blue  eyes,  more  like  a  shadow  than  a  person, 
and  begging  alms  with  tears.  It  was  not  people  who 
were  tormenting  her,  but  life  and  its  conditions.  What 
had  that  field  flower  of  Lipintse  to  do  in  the  whirl  of 
America,  in  that  gigantic  "  business  "  ?  How  was  she  to 
help  herself?  The  car  there  had  to  pass  over  her  and 
crush  her  frail  body,  as  every  car  passes  over  a  flower 
which  has  fallen  in  front  of  it. 


106  FOR  BREAD. 

A  hand,  emaciated,  trembling  from  weakness,  pulled  a 
bell  on  Water  Street.  That  was  Marysia,  who  had  come 
to  seek  aid  of  the  old  gentleman  from  Poznan. 

Some  stranger  opened  the  door  to  her,  an  unknown 
person. 

"  Is  Pan  Zlotopolski  at  home  ?  " 

"  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  An  old  gentleman."     Here  she  showed  his  card. 

"  He  is  dead." 

"  He  is  dead  ?     And  his  son  ?  —  Pan  William  ? " 

"He  has  gone  away." 

"  And  Panna  Jennie  ?  " 

"  She  has  gone  away." 

The  door  was  closed  before  her.  She  sat  on  the  door- 
step and  rubbed  her  face.  She  was  in  New  York  again, 
alone,  without  assistance,  without  protection,  without 
money,  dependent  on  the  will  of  God. 

Will  she  stay  there  ?  Never  !  She  will  go  now  to  the 
wharf,  to  the  German  docks,  to  seize  the  captain's  feet, 
and  beg  him  to  take  her ;  and  if  they  will  have  kindness, 
she  will  go  through  Germany  on  begged  bread,  and  return 
to  Lipintse.  Her  Yasko  is  there.  Besides  him  she  has 
no  one  in  the  broad  world  now.  If  he  will  not  take  her 
in,  if  he  has  forgotten  her,  if  he  will  reject  her,  she  can 
even  die  near  him. 

She  went  to  the  wharf  and  crawled  at  the  feet  of  the 
German  captains.    They  would  have  taken  her  ;  for  were 
she   to   freshen  up  a  little   she   would   be  a   nice  girl. 
They  would  be  glad  but  then  the  rules  did  not  permit  — 
besides,  it  is  a  vexation.     So  let  them  alone. 

The  girl  went  to  sleep  on  that  same  place  where  she 
had  slept  once  with  her  father  on  that  night  when  he 
wanted  to  drown  her.  She  nourished  herself  with  what 
the  water  threw  up,  as  she  had  in  New  York  with  her 
father.  Happily,  the  summer  was  warm. 


FOR  BREAD.  107 

Every  day,  just  after  dawn,  she  was  at  the  German 
docks  begging  a  favor,  and  every  day  vainly.  She  had 
peasant  endurance,  but  strength  was  deserting  her.  She 
felt  that  if  she  could  not  go  back  quickly  she  would  die 
soon,  as  all  had  died  with  whom  fate  had  connected  her. 

A  certain  morning  she  dragged  herself  to  the  German 
docks  with  effort,  and  thinking  that  that  was  the  last 
time,  for  to-morrow  her  strength  would  not  be  sufficient. 
She  resolved  not  to  beg,  but  to  walk  onto  the  first 
steamer  sailing  for  Europe  and  hide  somewhere  quietly  ; 
when  they  sailed  out  and  found  her,  they  would  not 
throw  her  into  the  water ;  if  they  should,  well,  let  them 
do  so.  It  is  all  the  same  to  her  how  she  dies,  if  die  she 
must.  But  at  the  gangway  leading  to  the  steamer 
persons  going  on  board  are  watched  carefully,  and  the 
guard  pushed  her  away  at  the  first  trial. 

She  sat  on  a  post  near  the  water,  and  thought  to  her- 
self that  fever  might  seize  her.  She  began  to  laugh,  and 
muttered,  — 

"  I  am  an  heiress,  Yasko,  but  I  kept  faith  with  thee. 
Dost  thou  not  know  me  ?  " 

The  hapless  girl  caught  no  fever,  but  insanity  seized  her. 
Thenceforward  she  went  every  day  to  the  wharf  to  look 
for  Yasko.  People  grew  accustomed  to  her  and  gave  her 
alms  sometimes.  She  thanked  them  with  humility,  and 
laughed  like  a  child.  This  lasted  two  months  perhaps. 
One  time,  however,  she  did  not  go  to  the  wharf,  and  was 
seen  there  no  more.  But  the  "  Police  Gazette  "  announced 
on  the  following  morning  that  at  the  very  end  of  the  pier 
had  been  found  the  body  of  a  dead  girl,  of  unknown  name 
and  origin. 


ORSO. 


ORSO. 

THE  last  days  of  autumn  are  for  Anaheim,  a  small 
town  in  Southern  California,  days  of  amusement 
and  celebration.  The  grape-gathering  is  finished  then 
altogether,  so  the  town  swarms  with  laboring  people.' 
Nothing  is  more  picturesque  than  the  view  presented  by 
that  population,  formed,  in  its  minority,  of  Mexicans,  but 
mainly  of  Cahuilla  Indians,  who  come  for  work  from  the 
wild  mountains  of  San  Bernardino,  which  lie  in  the 
depth  of  the  country.  Both  Indians  and  Mexicans  dis- 
pose themselves  on  the  streets  and  market  squares,  or 
so-called  "  lolas,"  where  they  sleep  under  tents,  or  simply 
under  the  naked  sky,  always  serene  at  that  season. 

The  pretty  town,  surrounded  by  groups  of  eucalyptus, 
castor,  and  pepper  trees,  is  seething  as  though  with  a 
bustling  and  noisy  fair,  and  forms  an  astonishing  con- 
trast to  the  deep  and  dignified  silence  of  the  cactus- 
covered  desert,  which  begins  immediately  beyond  the 
vineyards.  In  the  evening,  when  the  sun  hides  its  shin- 
ing circle  in  the  depth  of  the  ocean,  and  when,  on  the 
ruddy  sky,  are  seen  also  the  rosy  bright  lines  of  wild 
geese,  ducks,  pelicans,  mews,  and  cranes,  stretching  in 
thousands  from  the  mountains  toward  the  ocean,  fires  are 
kindled  in  Anaheim  and  amusement  begins.  Negro  min- 
strels shake  their  tambourines,  and  at  every  fire  are  to  be 
heard  the  sound  of  drums  and  the  plaintive  tones  of  the 
banjo.  The  Mexicans  dance  on  spread-out  ponchos  their 
favorite  bolero;  the  Indians  accompany  them,  holding  in 


112  ORSO. 

their  teeth  long  white  reeds  of  kiotte,  or  giving  out  shouts 
of  "  E  viva  ! "  The  fire,  nourished  with  redwood,  crackles 
and  shoots  sparks,  and  in  its  bloody  gleams  are  seen  leap- 
ing figures,  while  round  about  are  local  settlers,  with 
their  handsome  wives  and  daughters  on  their  arms,  wit- 
nessing the  amusement. 

The  day,  however,  on  which  the  last  cluster  of  grapes 
is  trodden  out  by  Indian  feet,  is  the  greatest  holiday  ;  for 
then  comes  from  Los  Angeles  the  travelling  circus  of 
Herr  Hirsch,  a  German,  and  also  the  owner  of  a  menag- 
erie, composed  of  monkeys,  cougars,  African  lions,  one 
elephant,  and  a  number  of  parrots,  grown  foolish  from 
age, — this  is  "the  greatest  attraction  of  the  world!" 

The  Cahuillas,  indeed,  give  the  last  "  pesos,"  which  they 
have  not  been  able  to  drink  away,  only  to  see,  not  so 
much  wild  beasts,  for  of  those  in  San  Bernadino  there  is 
no  lack,  but  circus  women,  athletes,  clowns,  and  all  the 
wonders  of  the  circus,  which  to  them,  at  least,  seem 
"  great  medicine,"  that  is,  magic,  possible  of  accomplish- 
ment only  through  supernatural  powers. 

The  man  who  should  think,  however,  that  the  circus 
was  an  attraction  merely  for  Indians,  negroes,  and  China- 
men, would  draw  upon  himself  the  just  and,  God  knows, 
the  dangerous  wrath  of  Herr  Hirsch.  The  arrival  of  the 
circus  brings  after  it  a  gathering  not  only  of  the  sur- 
rounding settlers,  but  even  of  inhabitants  of  the  neigh- 
boring smaller  towns,  Westminster,  Orange,  and  Los 
Nietos.  Orange  Street  is  so  packed  with  wagons  and 
buggies,  of  forms  the  most  varied,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
push  through;  all  the  great  world  of  settlerdom  has 
risen  as  one  man.  Young,  smart,  little  misses,  with 
bright  bangs  over  their  eyes,  sitting  in  the  front  seats, 
drive  over  people  charmingly  along  the  streets,  twittering 
and  showing  their  teeth  as  they  do  so ;  Spanish  senoritas 


ORSO.  118 

from  Los  Nietos,  cast  long  shaded  glances  from  under 
their  tulle  veils  ;  married  dames,  from  the  neighborhood, 
dressed  in  the  latest  fashion,  lean  with  pride  on  the  arms 
of  sunburnt  farmers,  for  whom  a  torn  hat,  jeans  panta- 
loons, and  a  flannel  shirt,  which,  for  want  of  a  cravat,  is 
fastened  with  hooks  and  eyes,  serve  as  an  entire  costume. 

All  that  world  exchanges  greetings,  calls,  looks  with 
careful  eye  at  dresses  to  see  how  far  they  are  "  very  fash- 
ionable," and  gossips  a  little. 

Among  American  buggies  covered  with  flowers  and 
looking  like  great  bouquets  young  men  ride  on  mustangs 
and  bend  forward  on  their  high  Mexican  saddles,  as  they 
glance  stealthily  under  the  hats  of  young  maidens.  The 
half-wild  horses,  frightened  by  the  uproar  and  noise,  roll 
their  bloody  eyes,  rear,  and  neigh  ;  but  the  daring  riders 
do  not  even  seem  to  take  note  of  their  movements. 

All  speak  of  "  the  greatest  attraction,"  or  the  details 
of  the  evening  representation,  which  is  to  surpass  in 
splendor  everything  seen  hitherto. 

Indeed,  the  gigantic  show-bills  announce  real  wonders. 
The  director  himself,  Herr  Hirsch,  "  an  artist  at  the  whip," 
is  to  give  a  concert  with  the  wildest  known  African  lion. 
The  lion  is  to  hurl  himself,  according  to  programme,  on  the 
director,  whose  only  defence  is  the  whip.  But  that  ordi- 
nary weapon  becomes,  in  his  wonder-working  hands  (al- 
ways according  to  programme),  a  fiery  sword  and  a  shield. 
The  end  of  that  whip  is  to  bite  like  a  rattlesnake,  flash  like 
lightning,  hit  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  keep  continually  at  a 
distance  the  monster,  which  struggles  in  vain  and  tries  to 
rush  on  the  artist.  But  that  is  not  the  end  yet.  The 
sixteen-year-old  Orso,  the  "Hercules  of  America,"  born 
of  a  white  father  and  an  Indian  mother,  is  to  carry  six 
men,  three  on  each  shoulder;  besides  this,  the  director 
offers  a  hundred  dollars  to  any  man,  "  without  regard  to 

8 


114  ORSO. 

color  of  skin,"  who  can  throw  the  young  athlete  in 
wrestling.  An  indefinite  report  is  circling  through  Ana- 
heim, that  Grizzly-killer  has  come  purposely  from  the 
San  Bernardino  mountains  for  a  trial  with  Orso.  He  is 
a  trapper,  celebrated  for  courage  and  strength,  who,  since 
California  became  California,  is  the  first  man  who  dared 
to  attack  a  grizzly  bear  with  an  axe  and  a  knife. 

The  probable  victory  of  the  "  bear-killer  "  over  the  six- 
teen-year-old athlete  of  the  circus  rouses  all  the  male 
population  of  Anaheim  to  the  utmost ;  for,  if  Orso,  who 
hitherto  had  thrown  the  strongest  "  Yankees  "  between 
the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific,  comes  off  victorious,  immor- 
tal glory  will  settle  on  all  California. 

The  minds  of  the  women  are  not  less  roused  by  the 
following  item  of  the  programme,  which  states  that  the 
same  powerful  Orso  will  carry  on  a  thirty-foot  pole  little 
Jennie,  "  the  wonder  of  the  world,"  of  whom  the  hand- 
bill announces  that  she  is  the  most  beautiful  maiden  that 
has  lived  on  earth  "  during  the  Christian  era." 

Though  Jennie  is  only  thirteen,  the  director  offers  one 
hundred  dollars  to  any  girl,  "without  reference  to  the 
color  of  her  skin,"  who  will  compete  in  beauty  with 
"the  angel  of  the  air."  The  misses,  the  little  misses, 
and  the  smallest  misses  from  Anaheim  and  the  environs 
turn  up  their  noses  in  contempt,  when  they  read  this 
part  of  the  programme,  and  declare  that  it  would  not 
be  "  ladylike  "  to  undertake  such  competition.  Still,  each 
of  them  would  rather  give  up  her  rocking-chair  than  not 
be  present  at  the  evening  exhibition,  and  not  see  that 
childlike  rival,  in  whose  beauty,  however,  in  compari- 
son, for  instance,  with  the  sisters  Bimpa,  no  one  believes. 

The  two  sisters  Bimpa,  the  elder,  Eefugio,  and  the 
younger,  Mercedes,  are  sitting  carelessly  in  a  beautiful 
gy»"  Just  reading  the  bill.  On  their  wonderful  faces 


ORSO.  115 

not  the  least  emotion  is  noticeable,  though  they  feel  that 
the  eyes  of  Anaheim  are  turned  to  them  at  that  moment, 
as  if  imploring  them  to  save  the  honor  of  the  whole 
county,  and  turned  also  with  patriotic  pride,  founded  on 
the  conviction  that  more  beautiful  than  those  two  flow- 
ers of  California,  there  are  not  in  all  the  mountains  and 
canons  of  this  world.  Oh  !  but  they  are  beautiful,  those 
sisters  Eefugio  and  Mercedes !  It  is  not  for  nothing  that 
pure  Castilian  blood  is  flowing  in  their  veins ;  to  this  blood 
their  mother  refers  continually,  expressing  at  the  same 
time  her  lofty  contempt  for  all  kinds  of  colored  people,  as 
well  as  for  persons  with  light  hair, — that  is,  "Yankees." 

The  forms  of  the  two  sisters  are  slender,  lithe;  in  their 
movements  are  certain  mysteries,  languid,  and  so  luxuri- 
ous that  when  any  young  man  approaches  them  the  heart 
struggles  in  his  breast  from  unconfessed  and  unknown 
desire.  A  charm  breathes  from  Eefugio  and  Mercedes,  as 
odor  from  magnolias.  Their  faces  are  delicate,  their  com- 
plexions transparent,  though  blushing  with  a  slight  rosi- 
ness,  like  the  gleam  of  dawn  ;  their  eyes  are  dreamy  and 
black,  sweet,  and  in  expression  innocent  and  sensitive. 
Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  their  muslin  rebozos,  in  a  buggy 
filled  with  flowers,  they  are  sitting  there  so  pure,  calm, 
and  beautiful  that  they  seem  even  not  to  know  their 
own  beauty.  Anaheim  looks  at  them,  devours  them  with 
its  eyes,  is  proud  of  them,  is  in  love  with  them.  What 
must  that  Jennie  be  if  she  is  to  bear  away  the  victory 
from  them  ?  "  The  Saturday  Weekly  Review  "  wrote,  it 
is  true,  that  when  little  Jennie  climbs  to  the  end  of  the 
pole,  resting  on  the  powerful  shoulder  of  Orso,  when  she 
is  on  the  point  of  that  pole,  hanging  over  the  earth,  ex- 
posed to  death,  and  begins  to  spread  out  her  arms  and 
flutter  like  a  butterfly,  it  grows  silent  in  the  circus,  and 
not  only  eyes,  but  hearts  follow,  with  trembling,  every 


116  ORSO. 

movement  of  the  wonderful  child.  "  Whoever  has  seen 
her  once  on  the  pole,  or  on  horseback,"  concludes  the 
"  Saturday  Eeview,"  "  will  never  forget  it,  for  the  great- 
est artist  on  earth,  even  Mr.  Harvey  of  San  Francisco, 
who  painted  the  Palace  Hotel,  would  not  have  been  able 
to  paint  anything  like  her." 

The  youth  of  Anaheim,  sceptical  and  enamoured  of  the 
sisters  Bimpa,  assert  that  there  is  "  humbug  "  in  that ; 
still,  it  will  be  decided  finally  only  in  the  evening. 

Meanwhile  the  movement  around  the  circus  increases 
with  every  moment.  From  the  midst  of  the  long  wooden 
sheds  surrounding  the  canvas  circus  proper,  comes  the 
roaring  of  lions  and  of  the  elephant ;  parrots,  attached  to 
rings  hung  at  the  sheds,  make  an  uproar  with  heaven- 
piercing  voices ;  the  monkeys  hang  by  their  own  tails, 
or  are  teased  by  the  public,  held  at  a  distance  by  ropes 
stretched  around  the  buildings. 

Finally,  a  procession  emerges  from  the  chief  building, 
the  object  of  which  is  to  excite  curiosity  to  the  degree  of 
amazement.  The  head  of  the  procession  is  formed  by  an 
enormous  chariot  drawn  by  six  horses  with  plumes  on 
their  heads.  Grooms,  in  the  French  costume  of  pos- 
tilions, drive  from  their  saddles.  On  wagons  are  cages 
with  lions,  in  each  cage  sits  a  lady  with  an  olive  branch. 
After  the  wagons  marches  an  elephant  covered  with  a 
carpet,  a  tower  is  fixed  on  his  back,  and  bowmen  are 
sitting  in  the  tower. 

Trumpets  sound,  drums  are  beaten,  lions  roar,  whips 
are  cracked ;  in  a  word,  the  whole  caravan  moves  for- 
ward like  a  brawl,  with  outcry  and  uproar;  that  is  not 
enough,  behind  the  elephant  rolls  a  machine  with  a  boiler 
as  in  a  locomotive,  an  organ  on  which  steam  plays,  or 
rather  bellows  and  whistles  out  in  the  most  infernal  man- 
ner, the  national  "  Yankee  Doodle."  At  times  the  steam 


ORSO.  117 

is  stopped  in  the  pipes,  and  then  comes  out  the  ordinary 
whistle  from  the  pipe,  which  does  not  decrease,  however, 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd,  who  cannot  contain  them- 
selves from  delight,  when  they  hear  that  roaring  music  by 
steam.  The  Americans  cry,  "  Hurrah ! "  the  Germans, 
"  Hoch ! "  the  Mexicans,  "  E  viva ! "  the  Cahuillas  howl 
like  wild  beasts,  with  ecstasy. 

Crowds  follow  the  procession  ;  places  around  the  circus 
are  deserted ;  the  parrots  cease  their  uproar ;  the  monkeys 
cease  to  jump.  "The  greatest  attraction"  does  not  take 
part,  however,  in  the  procession.  In  the  chariots  are 
neither  the  director,  "  incomparable  at  the  whip,"  nor  the 
"invincible  Orso,"  nor  "Jennie,  the  angel  of  the  air."  All 
that  is  reserved  till  evening,  to  produce  then  the  greatest 
impression. 

The  director  is  sitting  somewhere  in  the  shed,  or  peep- 
ing in  at  his  cash  office,  where  his  negroes  show  their 
white  teeth  to  the  public ;  he  looks  in  and  is  angry  in 
every  case.  Orso  and  Jennie  have  their  own  exercise  in 
the  circus.  Under  the  canvas  reign  silence  and  gloom. 

The  background,  where  seats  rise  higher  and  higher,  is 
almost  completely  dark  ;  the  greatest  amount  of  light  falls 
through  the  canvas  roof  on  the  arena,  which  is  sprinkled 
with  sawdust  and  sand.  By  those  gray  rays  of  light, 
which  pass  through  the  canvas,  is  seen  a  horse,  standing 
at  the  barrier.  There  is  no  one  near  him,  the  large,  broad 
beast  is  wearied  evidently ;  he  drives  away  flies  with  his 
tail,  and  nods  as  much  as  he  can  with  his  head,  which  is 
tied  with  white  reins,  and  bent  toward  his  breast.  By 
degrees  the  eye  discovers  other  objects  too,  such  as  a  pole 
lying  on  the  sand,  the  pole  on  which  Orso  carries  Jennie 
usually,  and  a  number  of  hoops  with  blotting  paper  pasted 
across  them,  through  which  Jennie  has  to  spring ;  but  all 
these  are  lying  cast  about  carelessly.  The  whole  half- 


118  ORSO. 

lighted  arena,  and  the  circus,  altogether  gloomy,  makes 
the  impression  of  an  empty  house,  with  windows  broken 
long  before.  The  seats,  rising  in  tiers,  shone  on  only  in 
some  places,  look  like  a  ruin  ;  the  horse,  with  drooping 
head,  does  not  enliven  the  picture. 

Where  are  Orso  and  Jennie?  One  of  the  rays  of 
light  stealing  in  through  the  openings,  in  which  the  dust 
turns  and  dances,  falls  like  a  spot  of  gold  on  the  seats  of 
the  farther  benches.  That  spot  advances  according  to 
the  movement  of  the  sun,  and  at  last  illuminates  the 
group  composed  of  Orso  and  Jennie. 

Orso  is  sitting  on  a  bench,  near  him,  Jennie;  her 
pretty,  childish,  little  face  is  nestled  up  to  the  shoulder 
of  the  athlete,  her  arm  is  around  his  neck,  and  holds  by 
the  other  shoulder.  The  eyes  of  the  little  girl  are  lifted, 
as  if  listening  attentively  to  the  words  of  her  comrade, 
who,  bent  above  her,  moves  his  head  sometimes,  as  if 
explaining  and  interpreting  something.  Thus  nestled  up 
to  each  other,  they  might  be  taken  for  two  lovers,  were  it 
not  that  the  legs  of  Jennie,  clothed  in  pale  rose-colored 
tights,  without  reaching  the  ground,  were  swinging  back 
and  forth  with  a  movement  perfectly  childlike,  which  is 
called  also  making  pots,  her  raised  eyes  express  listen- 
ing, and  a  powerful  exertion  of  thought,  rather  than  any 
romantic  feeling.  Also  her  form  is  only  taking  on  the 
first  outlines  of  a  woman. 

In  general,  Jennie  is  still  a  child,  but  such  a  charming 
one  that,  without  offence  to  Mr.  Harvey  of  San  Francisco, 
who  painted  the  Palace  Hotel,  it  would  be  difficult  for 
him  to  imagine  anything  similar.  Her  little  face  is 
simply  angelic;  her  great,  pensive  blue  eyes,  of  a  deep, 
sweet,  confiding  expression,  her  dark  brows  are  outlined 
with  incomparable  purity,  on  a  forehead,  white,  and  as  it 
were  sunk  in  thought,  on  which  a  yellow,  silky,  and  a 


ORSO.  119 

trifle  disordered  forelock  casts  its  shadow,  which  not 
only  Mr.  Harvey,  but  a  certain  other  painter  named 
Eembrandt,  would  not  have  been  ashamed  of.  The  little 
maid  reminds  one  of  both  Cinderella  and  Gretchen ; 
and  the  nestling  posture,  which  she  has  taken,  betrays  a 
timid  disposition,  requiring  protection. 

By  this  posture,  in  the  manner  of  Greuze,  is  set  off 
wonderfully  the  circus  costume  formed  of  a  short  gauze 
skirt  embroidered  with  silver  tinsel,  so  short  that  it  does 
not  cover  her  knees,  and  rose-colored  tights. 

Sitting  in  the  beam  of  golden  light,  on  a  deep  and  dark 
background,  she  looks  like  some  sunny,  transparent  vision, 
and  her  slender  figure  presents  a  direct  contrast  to  the 
angular  form  of  the  young  athlete. 

Orso,  dressed  in  flesh-colored  tights,  seems  naked  at  a 
distance ;  and  that  same  beam  illuminates  his  overgrown, 
unsymmetrical  limbs,  his  too  prominent  breast,  his  lank 
stomach,  and  his  legs  too  short  in  proportion  to  his  body. 
His  powerful  form  seems  to  be  merely  struck  out 
roughly  with  an  axe.  He  has  all  the  traits  of  a  circus 
athlete,  but  carried  to  such  a  degree  that  they  are 
almost  a  caricature.  Besides  he  is  ugly.  At  times,  when 
he  raises  his  head,  his  face  is  visible;  the  features  are 
regular,  perhaps,  even  very  regular,  but  somehow  stiff, 
and,  as  it  were,  hewn  out.  His  low  forehead,  and  black 
hair,  falling  down  to  his  nose,  like  the  forelock  of  a  horse, 
inherited  undoubtedly  from  his  Indian  mother,  give  his 
face  a  threatening  and  gloomy  appearance.  He  is  at 
once  like  a  bull  and  a  bear,  and  in  general  he  has  tre- 
mendous, but  vicious  power.  In  fact,  he  is  not  at  all 
kindly. 

When  Jennie  passes  near  the  stalls  of  the  horses, 
those  honest  creatures  turn  their  heads,  look  at  her  with 
their  wise  eyes,  and  neigh  quietly  as  if  they  wished  to 


120  ORSO. 

say,  "  How  do  you  do,  darling  ? "  but  at  sight  of  Orso, 
they  crouch  from  fear.  He  is  a  self-concentrated  fellow, 
gloomy  and  muttering.  Herr  Hirsch's  negroes,  who  per- 
form the  duties  of  jockeys,  clowns,  minstrels,  and  rope- 
walkers,  cannot  endure  him,  and  annoy  him  as  much 
as  they  can;  because  he  is  a  half-breed,  they  make 
nothing  of  him,  and  express  aloud  their  contempt.  The 
director,  who,  to  tell  the  truth,  does  not  risk  much  in 
setting  up  a  hundred  dollars  against  every  one  who 
may  wish  to  try  him,  hates  the  youth,  and  also  fears 
him,  but  in  the  same  way  in  which  a  trainer  of  wild 
beasts  fears,  for  example,  a  lion,  that  is,  he  flogs  him  for 
any  reason. 

It  is  done  also  for  this  cause,  that  Herr  Hirsch  con- 
siders that  if  he  should  not  beat  the  youth,  he  would 
himself  be  beaten  by  him;  but  in  general  he  holds  the 
principle  of  that  Creole  woman  who  looked  on  beating  as 
a  punishment,  and  not  beating  as  a  reward. 

Such  is  Orso.  For  some  time,  however,  he  has  become 
better,  for  he  began  to  love  little  Jennie  greatly.  It 
happened  a  year  before  that  when  Orso,  who  looked  after 
animals,  was  cleaning  the  cage  of  a  cougar,  the  beast 
thrust  out  his  paw  between  the  bars,  and  wounded  him 
in  the  head  rather  severely.  The  athlete  went  into  the 
cage  then,  and,  after  a  terrible  struggle  between  him 
and  the  beast,  he  was  the  only  survivor.  He  was  so 
severely  wounded,  however,  that  he  fainted,  and  was  sick 
after  that  for  a  long  time,  especially  since  the  director 
flogged  him  for  breaking  the  spine  of  the  cougar. 

In  the  time  of  his  illness,  little  Jennie  showed  him 
much  sympathy,  dressed  his  wounds  in  the  absence  of  any 
one  else,  and,  in  unoccupied  hours,  she  sat  near  him,  and 
read  to  him  the  Bible,  that  is,  "the  good  Book,"  which 
mentions  loving  one  another,  and  forgiveness,  and 


ORSO.  121 

charity,  —  in,  one  word,  things  concerning  which  mention 
was  never  made  in  Herr  Hirsch's  circus. 

Orso,  hearing  that  Book,  labored  a  long  time  with  his 
Indian  head,  and  at  last  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  if 
life  in  the  circus  were  as  in  that  Book,  he  would  not  be  so 
cross-grained.  He  thought,  too,  that  he  would  not  be 
beaten,  and,  perhaps,  he  would  even  find  some  one  to 
love  him.  But  who?  Not  the  negroes,  and  not  Herr 
Hirsch,  perhaps  little  Jennie,  whose  voice  sounded  as 
sweetly  in  his  ears  as  the  voice  of  a  maukawis  bird. 

Because  of  this  thought,  he  wept  much  on  a  certain 
evening ;  he  began  to  kiss  Jennie's  little  hands,  and  from 
that  time  he  loved  her  greatly.  Thenceforth,  when  dur- 
ing the  evening  exhibition  the  little  girl  rode  on  horse- 
back, he  was  always  in  the  arena,  and  followed  her  with 
careful  eye.  Holding  before  her  hoops  with  blotting 
paper  pasted  across,  he  smiled  at  her,  and  when  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  music,  "  Ah,  death  is  near ! "  he 
carried  her  on  the  point  of  the  pole,  to  the  great  terror 
of  the  spectators,  he  was  alarmed  himself.  He  knew 
well  at  that  time,  that  if  she  fell,  there  would  be  no  one  in 
the  circus  with  the  "  good  Book ; "  he  did  not  let  her  out 
of  his  sight  therefore,  and  that  carefulness  of  his,  and 
that  alarm,  as  it  were,  in  his  movements  added  to  the 
terror  of  the  spectacle.  When,  called  out  by  a  storm  of 
applause,  they  ran  together  into  the  arena,  he  pushed 
her  ahead  always,  so  that  most  of  the  applause  should 
fall  to  her,  and  he  muttered  with  delight.  That  surly 
fellow  could  talk  with  her  only,  and  he  opened  his  mind 
only  before  her.  He  hated  the  circus,  and  Herr  Hirsch, 
who  was  quite  different  from  the  people  of  the  "good 
Book." 

Something  always  drew  him  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon, 
to  woods  and  to  prairies.  When  the  travelling  company 


122  ORSO. 

in  its  journeys  happened  to  be  near  uninhabited  regions, 
such  instincts  rose  in  him  as  rise  in  a  tame  wolf,  on 
seeing  a  forest  for  the  first  time.  That  inclination,  per- 
haps, he  inherited  not  from  his  mother  only,  for  his 
father  was  certainly  some  trapper,  wandering  over  the 
plains.  He  confided  these  desires  to  little  Jennie,  and 
related  to  her  also  how  people  live  in  the  wilderness. 
For  the  greater  part  he  divined  that,  but  he  knew  a  little 
of  it  from  the  hunters  of  the  plains,  who  came  to  the 
circus  occasionally,  sometimes  to  bring  game  to  Herr 
Hirsch,  sometimes  to  try  for  the  hundred  dollars  which 
the  director  appointed  for  overcoming  Orso. 

Little  Jennie  listened  generally  to  these  conversations 
and  Indian  visions,  opening  her  blue  eyes  widely,  or 
thinking.  Orso  himself  never  went  into  the  desert.  She 
was  always  with  him,  and  it  was  so  pleasant  for  them, 
that  it  was  just  wonderful.  Every  day  they  saw  some- 
thing new ;  they  had  their  own  housekeeping ;  they  had, 
therefore,  to  take  everything  into  consideration. 

They  were  sitting  then  in  the  streak  of  light  and  talk- 
ing, instead  of  trying  new  jumps.  The  horse  was  stand- 
ing in  the  arena,  annoyed.  Little  Jennie,  leaning  up  to 
Orso's  shoulder,  had  her  thoughtful  eyes  fixed  in  space, 
and  was  swaying  her  legs  persistently  and  weighing  in 
her  little  head  how  it  would  be  in  the  wilderness ;  and  at 
times  she  threw  out  a  question  so  as  to  know  better  how 
it  would  be. 

"  And  where  is  one  to  live  ? "  asked  she,  raising  her  eyes 
to  her  comrade. 

"It  is  full  of  oak-trees  there.  A  man  takes  an  axe 
and  builds  a  house." 

"Well,"  said  Jennie,  "but  till  the  house  is  built ?" 

"  It  is  always  warm  there.  Grizzly  Killer  said  that  it 
was  very  warm." 


ORSO.  123 

Jennie  began  to  swing  her  legs  still  more  energetically, 
in  sign  that  if  it  was  warm  she  did  not  care  for  anything 
else ;  but  after  a  while  she  stopped  again.  She  has  in 
the  circus  a  dog  which  she  calls  Mr.  Dog,  and  a  cat 
called  Mr.  Cat;  she  wanted  therefore  to  decide  some- 
thing touching  them. 

"  But  will  Mr.  Dog  and  Mr.  Cat  go  with  us  ? " 

"They  will,"  answered  Orso,  and  he  muttered  with 
delight. 

"  Shall  we  take  the  '  good  Book '  with  us  too  ? " 

"  Yes  ! "  said  Orso,  and  he  muttered  still  more  loudly. 

"Well,"  twittered  the  little  maiden,  "Mr.  Cat  will 
catch  birds  for  us,  and  Mr.  Dog  will  bark  if  anything 
ugly  wants  to  come  to  us ;  and  you  will  be  husband,  and 
I  shall  be  wife,  and  they  will  be  our  children." 

Orso  was  made  so  happy  that  he  could  not  even 
mutter,  so  Jennie  continued,  — 

"And  there  will  be  no  Herr  Hirsch,  and  there  will  be 
no  circus,  and  we  will  never  do  any  work !  And  only  — 
but  no,"  added  she,  after  a  while,  "  the  good  Book  says 
that  we  must  labor,  so  sometimes  I  will  jump  through  a 
hoop,  or  two  hoops,  or  three  hoops,  or  four  hoops ! " 

Evidently  Jennie  could  not  imagine  to  herself  labor  in 
another  form  than  jumping  through  hoops.  After  a 
while  she  asks  again,  — 

"  Orso,  and  shall  I  really  be  with  you  all  the  time  ? " 

"Yes,  Jee,  I  love  you  very  much." 

His  face  lighted  up  when  he  said  that,  and  he  became 
almost  good-looking.  Still  he  did  not  know  how  he 
loved  that  little  bright-haired  head.  He  loved  her  as  a 
mastiff  his  mistress.  But  for  the  rest  in  his  whole  life 
only  her.  He  looked  like  a  dragon  near  her ;  but  how 
does  that  hurt  him  ?  In  no  way. 

"  Jee,  listen  to  what  I  say." 


124  ORSO. 

Jennie,  who  a  moment  before  had  stood  up,  wishing  to 
look  at  the  horse,  now,  so  as  not  to  lose  any  of  Orso's 
words,  rested  her  elbows  on  his  knee,  and  putting  her 
chin  on  both  palms,  began  to  listen  with  upraised  head. 

At  this  moment,  however,  to  the  misfortune  of  the 
children,  the  artist  of  the  whip  came  into  the  circus,  and 
came  in  the  very  worst  humor,  for  the  trial  with  the  lion 
had  failed  utterly.  The  beast  had  lost  his  hair  from  age, 
and  would  have  been  glad  had  they  given  him  holy 
peace  even  once.  He  would  not  rush  at  the  artist  for 
anything,  under  blows  of  the  club  he  only  hid  in  the 
interior  of  the  cage.  The  director  thought,  in  despair, 
that  if  that  loyal  disposition  did  not  leave  the  lion  before 
evening,  the  concert  on  the  whip  would  fail,  for  to  beat 
a  lion  which  slinks  away  is  no  greater  trick  than  to  eat 
a  lobster  tail  first. 

The  humor  of  the  director  was  still  worse  when  the 
negro  who  was  selling  tickets  for  the  standing-room 
reported  that  apparently  the  Cahuillas  had  drunk  away 
all  the  money  received  from  grape-gathering;  they  had 
come,  it  is  true,  in  large  numbers  to  the  office,  but 
instead  of  money  for  tickets,  they  offered  blankets,  marked 
U.  S.,  or  their  wives,  especially  the  old  ones. 

A  failure  of  money  with  the  Cahuillas  was  no  small 
loss  to  the  artist,  for  he  had  counted  on  a  "  crowded 
house,"  and  there  could  be  no  "  crowded  house "  unless 
the  standing-room  were  occupied ;  therefore  the  director 
wished  at  that  moment  that  all  the  Indians  had  only  one 
back,  and  that  he  could  give  a  concert  on  that  back  in 
presence  of  all  Anaheim.  He  entered  the  circus  building 
in  this  state  of  mind,  and  seeing,  at  the  barrier,  the 
horse  standing  idle,  with  a  wearied  look,  he  wanted  to 
turn  a  handspring  from  anger.  Where  could  Orso  and 
Jennie  be  ?  Shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  so  that  the 


ORSO.  125 

light  coming  through  the  canvas  might  not  dazzle  him, 
the  director  looked  into  the  interior  and  saw  Orso,  and 
Jennie  kneeling  before  him  with  her  elbows  on  his 
knees.  At  this  sight,  he  dropped  the  end  of  the  whip  to 
the  ground. 

"  Orso ! " 

A  thunderbolt  striking  the  group  of  two  children 
could  not  have  produced  in  them  greater  astonishment. 
Orso  sprang  to  his  feet  and  went  by  the  passage  between 
the  benches,  with  that  hurried  movement  of  a  beast  going 
to  the  voice  of  his  master ;  after  him  followed  little 
Jennie,  with  eyes  widely  opened  from  astonishment, 
catching  the  benches  along  the  way. 

Orso,  when  he  had  come  down  to  the  arena,  stopped  at 
the  parapet,  gloomy  and  silent.  The  gray  light  falling 
from  above  illuminated  sharply  his  Herculean  body  on 
short  legs. 

"  Nearer ! "  cried  the  director,  with  hoarse  voice. 

Meanwhile  the  end  of  his  whip  was  moving  along  the 
sand  with  the  ominous  movement  of  the  tail  of  a  tiger 
while  waiting  in  ambush. 

Orso  advanced  a  few  steps,  and  for  some  time  both 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

On  the  whole,  the  director  had  the  face  of  a  tamer  who 
has  entered  a  cage  to  flog  a  dangerous  beast,  but  at  the 
same  time  observes  him. 

Rage  gained  the  upper  hand  of  wariness.  His  thin 
legs,  in  elkskin  breeches  and  high-top  boots,  were  danc- 
ing under  him  from  anger.  Maybe,  too,  it  was  not  the 
idleness  of  the  children  alone  which  roused  that  anger. 

Above  between  the  benches  Jennie  was  looking  on 
both,  as  a  doe  might  look  on  two  bucks. 

"  Hoodlum  !  dog-catcher,  low  cur ! "  hissed  the  director. 

The  whip  described  a  circle  with  the  swiftness  of  light- 


126  ORSO. 

ning ;  it  whistled,  hissed,  and  struck.  Orso  whined  with 
a  low  sound,  and  threw  himself  forward  a  step;  but 
another  blow  stopped  him  at  once,  then  a  third,  a  fourth, 
a  tenth.  The  concert  had  begun,  though  there  were  no 
spectators  yet.  The  raised  arm  of  the  great  artist 
scarcely  moved ;  his  hand  merely  turned,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  part  of  some  machine  fixed  on  a  pivot,  and  every  turn 
was  answered  with  a  blow  on  the  flesh  of  Orso.  It 
seemed  that  the  whip,  or  rather  the  poisonous  end  of  it, 
filled  all  the  space  between  the  athlete  and  the  director, 
who,  exciting  himself  gradually,  fell  into  genuine  artistic 
ecstasy.  The  master  was  simply  improvising.  The  lash, 
gleaming  in  the  air,  had  twice  described  on  the  neck  of 
the  athlete  bloody  traces,  which  powder  was  to  cover  in 
the  evening. 

Orso  was  silent  in  the  dance ;  but  after  every  blow  he 
moved  a  step  forward,  the  director  a  step  backward. 
In  this  way  they  went  around  the  whole  arena ;  and  then 
the  director  pushed  out  of  the  arena,  precisely  as  a  beast- 
tamer  out  of  a  cage,  and  finally  vanished  at  the  entrance 
to  the  stables,  exactly  like  a  tamer. 

But,  in  passing  out,  his  glance  fell  upon  Jennie. 
.  "  To  horse  ! "  cried   he.      "  Beckoning  with  you  will 
come  later ! " 

His  voice  had  not  ceased  sounding  when  the  white 
skirt  gleamed  in  the  air,  and  Jennie  sprang  in  a  twinkle 
to  the  horse's  back,  like  a  monkey. 

The  director  vanished  behind  the  curtain ;  the  horse 
began  to  gallop  around,  striking  the  barrier  sometimes 
with  his  hoofs. 

"Hep!  hep!"  cried  Jennie,  in  a  thin  voice.  "Hep! 
hep ! "  but  that  "  hep !  hep  !  "  was  at  the  same  time  a  sob. 
The  horse,  running  faster  and  faster,  struck  with  his 
hoofs,  bending  away  from  the  barrier  more  vigorously. 


ORSO.  127 

The  little  maiden,  standing  on  the  saddle,  with  her  feet 
pressed  one  to  the  other,  seemed  hardly  to  touch  it  with 
the  tips  of  her  toes  ;  her  bare,  rosy  arms  kept  her  balance 
with  quick  movements ;  her  tresses  and  the  gauze  circus 
skirt,  borne  back  by  the  current  of  air,  flew  after  her 
slight  form,  which  was  like  a  bird  circling  in  the  air. 

"  Hep  !  hep !  "  cried  she  again.  Meanwhile  tears  filled 
her  eyes,  so  that  she  had  to  raise  her  head  to  see  any- 
thing; the  running  of  the  horse  made  her  dizzy;  the 
rising  tiers  of  benches,  the  walls,  and  the  arena  began  to 
whirl  around  her.  She  staggered  once,  a  second  time, 
and  at  last  fell  into  Orso's  arms. 

"  Oh,  Orso !  poor  Orso  !  "  said  the  child,  sobbing. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Jee  ? "  whispered  the  youth. 
"  Why  are  you  crying  ?  Don't  cry,  Jee !  It  does  n't 
pain  me  much,  not  much  at  all." 

Jennie  threw  both  of  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  began  to  kiss  his  cheeks.  Her  whole  body  trembled 
from  excitement,  and  her  weeping  passed  almost  into 
spasms. 

"  Orso !  Oh,  Orso ! "  repeated  she,  unable  to  speak 
further,  and  her  arms  pressed  violently  around  his  neck. 
If  she  had  been  flogged  herself,  she  could  not  have  cried 
more ;  at  last  he  fell  to  soothing  in  turn  and  pacifying 
her.  Forgetting  his  pain,  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  pressed 
her  to  his  heart ;  and  his  nerves,  roused  by  the  flogging, 
caused  him  to  feel  for  the  first  time  that  he  loved  her  not 
merely  as  a  mastiff  loves  his  mistress.  He  breathed 
quickly,  and  his  lips  began  to  whisper,  with  interrupted 
breath, — 

"  Nothing  pains  me  any  more ;  when  you  are  near  me, 
I  am  very  happy  — Jennie,  Jennie !  " 

Meanwhile  the  director  was  striding  through  the 
stables  and  foaming  from  rage.  Jealousy  was  diving 


128  ORSO. 

into  his  heart.  He  had  seen  the  little  maiden  on  her 
knees  before  Orso,  and  for  a  certain  time  the  wonderful 
child  had  begun  to  rouse  in  him  as  it  were  the  dawn  of 
low  feelings,  not  sufficiently  developed  yet.  But  he  sus- 
pected her  and  Orso  of  a  romance,  hence  he  desired  ven- 
geance. He  would  find  a  wild  delight  in  beating  her,  — 
in  beating  her  very  soundly ;  and  he  could  not  resist  this 
desire.  After  a  while  he  called  her. 

She  tore  away  from  the  arms  of  the  athlete,  and  in  a 
twinkle  disappeared  in  the  dark  entrance  to  the  stables. 
Orso  was  as  if  dazed,  for,  instead  of  following  her,  he 
went  with  tottering  step  to  a  bench,  and,  sitting  down, 
began  to  pant  violently. 

The  girl,  when  she  had  run  into  the  stable,  saw  no  one 
at  first,  for  it  was  darker  there  than  in  the  arena.  But, 
fearing  that  she  might  be  censured  for  not  obeying  the 
command  at  once,  she  called,  in  a  low  and  alarmed 
voice,  — 

"  I  am  here,  sir,  I  am  here ! " 

At  that  moment  the  hand  of  the  director  seized  her 
little  hand,  and  a  hoarse  voice  said,  — 

"  Come  ! " 

If  he  had  been  angry  at  her,  or  had  shouted,  it  would 
have  frightened  her  less  than  that  silence  in  which  he  led 
her  toward  the  dressing-room  of  the  circus.  She  held 
back,  and,  resisting  with  all  her  strength,  repeated  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  — 

"  Dear,  kind  Herr  Hirsch  !  I  will  never  — 

But  he  took  her  by  force  to  the  long,  closed  chamber 
in  which  was  the  store  of  costumes,  and  locked  the  door. 

Jennie  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  and,  with  upraised 
eyes  and  crossed  hands,  trembling  like  a  leaf,  covered  with 
tears,  she  tried  to  bend  him  by  entreaty ;  but  he,  taking 
a  whip  from  the  wall,  said,  in  answer,  — 


ORSO.  129 

"  Lie  down  ! " 

Then  she  seized  his  feet  in  despair,  for  she  was  almost 
dying  of  terror.  Every  nerve  in  her  was  quivering  like  a 
distended  chord  in  a  musical  instrument.  But  in  vain 
did  she  press  her  pale  lips  imploringly  to  his  polished 
boot-legs.  On  the  contrary,  her  terror  and  prayers  seemed 
to  excite  him  still  more.  Grasping  her  by  the  girdle  of 
her  skirt,  he  placed  her  on  a  pile  of  robes  lying  on  the 
table  ;  then,  for  a  while  yet,  he  stopped  the  violent  move- 
ment of  her  feet,  and  at  last  struck. 

"  Orso  !  Orso  ! "  screamed  the  girl. 

At  that  same  moment  the  door  shook  on  its  hinges, 
cracked  from  top  to  bottom,  and  the  whole  half  of  it, 
broken  out  by  gigantic  strength,  fell  with  a  crash  to  the 
ground. 

In  the  opening  stood  Orso. 

The  whip  fell  from  the  director's  hand,  and  his  face 
was  covered  with  the  pallor  of  a  corpse,  for  Orso  had  a 
terrible  look  indeed.  Instead  of  eyes  only  the  whites  of 
them  were  visible.  His  large  mouth  was  covered  with 
foarn ;  his  head  was  bent  forward  like  the  head  of  a  bull, 
and  his  whole  body  was  collected,  as  if  for  a  plunge. 

"  Out  of  here  ! "  shouted  the  director,  striving  to  cover 
his  fear  with  a  shout. 

But  the  bond  was  broken  ;  Orso,  usually  as  obedient 
as  a  dog  to  every  motion,  simply  bent  his  head  lower  and 
moved  on  ominously  toward  the  artist  of  the  whip, 
stretching  as  if  by  superior  force  his  iron  muscles. 

"  Help !     Help  ! "  shouted  the  artist. 

They  heard  him. 

Four  immense  negroes  ran  in  with  all  speed  from  the 
stables  through  the  broken  door  and  rushed  at  Orso.  A 
terrible  conflict  began  at  which  the  director  gazed  with 
chattering  teeth.  For  a  long  time  only  a  group  of  inter- 


130  ORSO. 

woven  dark  bodies  were  to  be  seen  struggling  in  convul- 
sive whirls,  moving,  winding  round  each  other,  storming ; 
in  the  silence  which  surrounded  them  was  heard  at  one 
time  a  groan,  at  another,  a  snorting  or  the  wheezing  of 
nostrils.  But  after  a  while  one  of  the  negroes,  hurled 
out  as  if  by  superhuman  force  from  that  formless  mass, 
balanced  in  the  air  and  fell  at  the  side  of  the  director, 
striking  his  head  with  a  dull  thump  on  the  floor ;  soon  a 
second  man  flew  out ;  and  finally  above  the  crowd  of 
strugglers  rose  only  Orso,  more  terrible  than  ever,  blood- 
stained, his  hair  standing  on  his  head.  His  knees  were 
still  pressing  down  two  negroes  in  a  swoon.  He  sprang 
up  and  rushed  at  the  director. 

The  artist  closed  his  eyes. 

In  that  same  second  he  felt  that  his  feet  were  no 
longer  touching  the  earth,  he  felt  that  he  was  flying 
through  the  air ;  after  that  he  felt  nothing,  for  striking 
the  remaining  half  of  the  door  with  his  whole  body,  he 
fell  on  the  ground  without  consciousness. 

Orso  wiped  his  face,  and  approached  Jennie. 

"  Come  !  "  said  he,  mildly. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  arid  they  walked  out.  The 
whole  town  was  just  running  after  the  procession  of 
wagons,  and  the  machine  playing  "  Yankee  Doodle," 
therefore  it  was  perfectly  empty  around  the  circus.  Only 
the  parrots,  swinging  in  their  hoops,  were  filling  the  air 
with  their  cries. 

The  children  went  hand  in  hand,  straight  ahead  toward 
the  place  where  at  the  end  of  the  street  an  immense  field 
of  cactuses  was  visible.  In  silence  they  passed  houses 
covered  by  the  shade  of  eucalyptus,  then  they  passed  the 
slaughter-house,  around  which  were  circling  thousands 
of  black  starlings  with  red  wings.  They  sprang  across 
the  great  irrigation  ditch,  entered  a  forest  of  orange- 


ORSO.  131 

trees,  and  coming  out  of  that  found  themselves  among 
cactuses. 

They  were  now  in  the  desert. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the  thorny  plants  rose 
higher  and  higher ;  the  intricate  leaves  growing  from 
other  leaves  stopped  the  road,  catching  Jennie's  dress 
with  their  thorns.  Sometimes  the  cactuses  rose  so  high 
that  the  children  were  as  if  in  some  forest,  but  neither  in 
that  forest  could  any  one  find  them.  They  went  on,  turn- 
ing now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  only  to  be  farther. 
In  places  where  the  pyramids  of  cactuses  were  fewer,  they 
could  see  on  the  very  edge  of  the  horizon  the  blue  moun- 
tains of  Santa  Ana.  They  went  toward  the  mountains. 
Ash-colored  locusts  were  singing  in  clumps  of  cactuses ; 
sun  rays  came  down  in  floods  to  the  earth ;  the  dried 
soil  was  varied  with  a  network  of  cracks ;  the  stiff  cactus 
leaves  seemed  to  grow  soft  from  the  heat ;  flowers  were 
drooping  and  half  withered. 

The  children  went  on,  silent  and  thoughtful.  But 
everything  about  them  was  so  new  that  soon  they  both 
yielded  to  their  impressions  completely  and  forgot  even 
suffering.  Jennie's  eyes  ran  from  one  clump  to  another ; 
now  she  dropped  her  inquisitive  glance  into  the  middle 
of  the  cactuses,  asking  from  time  to  time,  in  a  low 
voice,  — 

"  Is  this  the  desert,  Orso  ?  " 

But  the  desert  did  not  seem  empty.  From  the  farther 
clumps  came  the  calling  of  cock  partridges,  and  round 
about  were  heard  various  wonderful  clapping,  clicking, 
mutterings,  in  a  word,  the  most  varied  voices  of  small 
creatures  living  among  cactuses.  Now  a  whole  flock  of 
partridges  rose  on  the  wing,  now  crested  runners  fled  on 
long  legs,  black  squirrels  sprang  into  the  ground  at  the 
approach  of  the  children  ;  on  all  sides  hares  and  rabbits 


132  ORSO. 

were  running  ;  susliks,  sitting  on  their  hind  legs  before 
their  holes,  were  like  fat  German  farmers  standing  in  the 
doors  of  their  houses. 

After  a  short  time  the  children  went  on.  Soon  Jennie 
was  thirsty.  Orso,  in  whom  Indian  inventiveness  had 
been  roused,  evidently,  helped  her  by  plucking  prickly 
pears.  There  was  a  multitude  of  them  growing  on  the 
same  leaves  with  blossoms.  It  is  true  that  in  gathering 
them  both  pricked  their  hands  with  the  thorns  which 
were  as  delicate  as  hair,  but  to  them  the  fruit  tasted  ex- 
cellently ;  being  both  sweetish  and  sourish,  it  destroyed 
thirst  and  hunger.  The  desert  fed  the  children,  like  a 
mother.  When  strengthened,  they  were  able  to  go 
farther.  The  cactuses  towered  higher  and  higher ;  it 
might  be  said  that  one  plant  was  growing  on  the  head  of 
another. 

The  ground  on  which  they  travelled  rose  gradually, 
but  continually.  Looking  around  once  more  from  the 
foothills,  they  saw  Anaheim,  half  lost  in  the  distance, 
like  a  great  group  of  trees  growing  on  a  low  plain.  There 
was  no  longer  a  trace  of  the  circus.  For  whole  hours  they 
went  on  very  enduringly  toward  the  mountains,  which 
were  outlined  more  and  more  clearly.  The  region  about 
began  to  take  on  another  aspect.  Among  the  cactuses 
appeared  various  bushes,  and  even  trees.  The  woody 
part  of  the  foothills  of  Santa  Ana  began.  Orso  broke 
one  of  the  smaller  trees  and,  trimming  off  the  branches, 
made  a  club,  which  in  his  hand  might  be  a  terrible 
weapon.  The  instinct  of  the  Indian  whispered  to  him 
that  in  the  mountains  it  was  better  to  have  even  a  stick 
than  empty  hands,  especially  since  the  sun  had  begun  to 
sink  toward  the  west,  gradually.  Its  great  fiery  shield  had 
passed  far  beyond  Anaheim,  and  was  dropping  toward  the 
ocean.  After  a  while,  it  disappeared,  but  in  the  west 


ORSO.  133 

red,  golden,  and  orange  lights  of  evening  were  stretched 
over  the  whole  sky,  like  long  belts  and  stripes.  The 
mountains  bristled  up  in  those  gleams  ;  the  cactuses  took 
on  various  fantastic  forms,  like  men  and  animals.  Jennie 
felt  wearied  and  sleepy ;  but  both  hastened  with  all  their 
strength  to  the  mountains,  though  they  did  not  them- 
selves know  why.  In  fact  they  soon  saw  cliffs,  and, 
coming  to  them,  discovered  a  stream ;  after  they  had 
drunk  water,  they  went  farther  along  its  course.  Mean- 
while the  cliffs,  at  first  scattered  and  broken,  were 
changed  into  solid  walls,  then  into  walls  still  higher, 
and  soon  they  entered  a  canon  or  ravine. 

The  evening  lights  were  quenched ;  darkness,  ever  in- 
creasing, embraced  the  earth.  In  places  where  the  lianas 
threw  themselves  from  one  side  of  the  canon  to  the 
other,  making,  as  it  were,  a  vault  over  the  stream,  it  was 
perfectly  dark  and  quite  terrible.  Above  was  to  be 
heard  the  noise  of  trees,  which  could  not  be  seen  from 
below.  Orso  divined  that  this  was  the  wilderness,  and 
that  surely  it  was  full  of  wild  beasts.  From  time  to  time 
there  came  from  it  various  suspicious  voices ;  and  when 
night  fell  they  heard  distinctly  the  hoarse  bellowing  of 
bucks,  the  roar  of  cougars,  and  the  mournful  voices  of 
coyotes. 

"  Are  you  afraid,  Jee  ?  "  inquired  Orso. 

"  No !  "  answered  the  little  maiden. 

But  she  was  very  tired,  and  could  not  walk  farther. 
Orso  took  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her.  He  ad- 
vanced continually  with  the  hope  of  coming  upon 
some  squatter,  or  upon  Mexican  tents.  Once  or  twice 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  in  the  distance  the  gleam- 
ing eyes  of  a  wild  beast.  He  pressed  to  his  bosom, 
with  one  arm.  Jennie,  who  was  sleeping,  and  with  the 
other  held  his  club  firmly.  He  was  greatly  wearied  him- 


134  ORSO. 

self.  In  spite  of  his  gigantic  strength,  Jennie  began  to 
weigh  him  down,  all  the  more  since  he  carried  her  with 
his  left  arm ;  the  right  he  wished  to  have  free  for  de- 
fence. At  times  he  stopped  to  draw  breath ;  then  he 
went  farther.  He  halted  on  a  sudden  and  listened  care- 
fully. It  seemed  to  him  that  from  a  distance  came  the 
sound  of  bells  such  as  the  squatters  hang  on  cows  arid 
goats  for  the  night.  Going  forward  hurriedly  he  soon 
came  to  a  turn  in  the  stream.  The  sound  of  the  bells 
became  more  distinct,  and  finally  the  barking  of  dogs 
was  added  to  it.  Orso  was  certain  now  that  he  was  ap- 
proaching some  dwelling.  It  was  high  time  for  him ;  he 
had  exhausted  himself  during  the  day,  and  strength  be- 
gan to  fail  him.  He  passed  another  turn  and  saw  a  light ; 
as  he  went  forward  his  quick  eyes  discerned  a  fire.  A 
dog,  evidently  tied  to  a  tree,  was  pulling  and  barking.  At 
last  he  saw  a  man  sitting  near  the  fire. 

"  God  grant,"  thought  he,  "  that  this  is  a  man  from  the 
good  '  Book.'  " 

Then  he  decided  to  rouse  Jennie. 

"  Jee  ! "  cried  he,  "  wake  up  ;  we  shall  eat ! " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  maiden.     "  Where  are  we  ? " 

"  In  the  wilderness." 

She  woke  up. 

"  But  what  light  is  that  ? " 

"  Some  man  lives  there.     We  shall  eat." 

Poor  Orso  was  very  hungry. 

By  this  time  they  were  near  the  fire.  The  dog  barked 
more  violently,  and  the  old  man  sitting  by  the  fire 
shaded  his  eyes  and  looked  into  the  darkness.  After  a 
while  he  asked,  — 

"  Who  is  there  ? " 

"It  is  we,"  answered  Jennie,  with  her  thin  little  voice; 
"  and  we  want  very  much  to  eat." 


ORSO.  135 

"  Come  near  ! "  said  the  old  man. 

Coming  from  behind  a  great  rock  which  had  concealed 
them,  they  stood  before  the  fire,  holding  each  other  by 
the  hand.  The  old  man  looked  at  them  with  astonish- 
ment, and  out  of  his  mouth  came  the  involuntary  cry : 

"  What  is  this  ? " 

For  he  beheld  a  spectacle  which,  in  the  uninhabited 
mountains  of  Santa  Ana,  might  astonish  any  man.  Orso 
and  Jennie  were  wearing  their  circus  costumes.  The 
comely  little  maiden,  dressed  in  rose-colored  tights  and  a 
short  skirt,  appearing  suddenly,  looked,  in  the  gleam  of 
the  fire,  like  some  fantastic  sylph.  Behind  her  stood  the 
uncommonly  sturdy  youth,  dressed  in  flesh-colored  tights, 
through  which  his  muscles  were  visible  like  knots  on 
an  oak. 

The  old  squatter  looked  on  them  with  staring  eyes. 

"  What  kind  of  people  are  you  ?  "  asked  he. 

The  little  woman,  counting  evidently  more  on  her  own 
eloquence  than  on  that  of  her  comrade,  began  to  twitter : 

"  We  are  from  the  circus,  dear  sir.  Herr  Hirsch  beat 
Orso  terribly,  and  then  he  wanted  to  flog  me ;  but  Orso 
would  not  let  him  flog  me,  and  he  beat  Herr  Hirsch  and 
four  negroes ;  and  then  we  ran  away  into  the  wilderness  ; 
and  we  walked  a  long  time  through  the  cactuses,  and 
Orso  carried  me  ;  then  we  came  here,  and  we  want  very 
much  to  eat." 

The  old  hermit's  face  brightened  slowly,  and  his  eyes 
rested  with  a  kind,  fatherly  expression  on  the  charming 
child  who  hurried  in  talking,  as  if  she  wanted  to  tell 
everything  in  a  breath. 

"  What  is  your  name,  little  one  ? "  asked  he. 

"  Jennie." 

"  Well,  then,  welcome,  Jennie,  and  you,  Orso !  I  see 
people  seldom.  Come  to  me,  Jennie." 


136  ORSO. 

The  little  maiden,  without  hesitation,  threw  her  bare 
arms  around  the  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  heartily. 
He  seemed  to  her  to  be  out  of  the  "good  Book." 

"  But  will  Herr  Hirsch  find  us  here  ? "  asked  she, 
removing  her  rosy  lips  from  the  withered  face  of  the 
settler. 

"  He  will  find  a  bullet ! "  replied  the  old  man.  And 
after  a  while  he  added,  "  Do  you  say  that  you  want 
to  eat?" 

"  Oh,  very  much  !  " 

The  squatter  raked  in  the  ashes  and  took  out  a  splendid 
hind  leg  of  a  deer,  the  odor  of  which  spread  all  around. 
Then  they  sat  down  to  eat. 

The  night  was  magnificent ;  in  the  sky  high  above  the 
canon  rolled  the  moon ;  in  the  thicket  the  mauhawis 
began  to  sing  sweetly,  the  fire  crackled  joyfully,  and  Orso 
muttered  from  delight.  He  and  the  little  girl  ate  as  if 
paid  for  it ;  but  the  old  hermit  could  not  eat,  and  it  is 
unknown  why.  In  looking  at  little  Jennie,  he  had  tears 
in  his  eyes.  Maybe  he  had  been  a  father  long  ago,  and 
maybe  in  the  mountains  he  saw  people  rarely. 

From  that  time  on  those  three  persons  passed  their 
lives  together. 


WHOSE  FAULT? 
A   DRAMATIC   PICTURE   IN   ONE   ACT. 


WHOSE  FAULT? 
A  DEAMATIC   PICTURE   IN   ONE  ACT. 

CHARACTERS : 

YADVIGA  KARLOVETSKI. 
LEO,  A  Painter. 
A  SERVANT. 

In  the  dwelling  of  YADVIGA  KARLOVETSKI. 
SCENE  I. 

SERVANT  (conducts  LEO  in).  The  lady  will  come  imme- 
diately. 

LEO  (alone).  I  cannot  repress  my  emotion,  or  the 
throbbing  of  my  heart.  Three  times  did  I  grasp  the  bell, 
and  three  times  I  wished  to  withdraw.  Alarm  seizes  my 
whole  being.  Why  did  she  summon  me?  (Takes  out  a 
letter.}  "  Would  you  have  the  kindness  to  come  to  me  on 
an  affair  which  will  not  suffer  delay.  Notwithstanding 
all  that  has  passed  and  perished,  I  trust  that  you  will  not 
refuse  a  woman's  prayer.  Yadviga  Karlovetski."  Per- 
haps I  should  have  acted  far  more  wisely,  safely,  and 
honestly,  had  I  left  this  letter  unanswered ;  but  I  tempted 
myself,  I  persuaded  myself  that  nothing  could  happen, 
that  it  would  be  simply  brutal  not  to  come.  The  soul, 
poor  moth,  flies  to  the  light  which  may  burn  it,  but  can 
neither  warm  nor  enlighten  it.  What  drew  me  hither  ? 
Was  it  love  ?  Or  can  I  myself  tell  whether  I  love  yet  this 
woman,  so  unlike  my  former  white  maiden,  —  this  half 


HO  WHOSE   FAULT  ? 

lioness  whose  reputation  is  rent  by  people's  tongues  ? 
Nol  It  was  rather  a  kind  of  painful  curiosity  which 
attracted  me;  that  immense  sorrow  which  two  years 
could  not  assuage ;  that  thirst  for  every  explanation  of 
"  Why  ?  "  repeated  amid  sleepless  nights.  Well,  let  her 
see  this  emaciated  face,  let  her  look  from  near  by  at  a 
broken  life.  I  could  not  resist :  such  revenge  belongs  to 
me.  But  I  shall  preserve  dignity,  set  my  teeth  and  not 
groan.  What  has  happened  cannot  be  undone,  and  I 
swear  to  myself,  that  is  the  word  (clenching  his  fists),  that 
it  shall  never  be  undone. 

SCENE  II. 

YADVIGA  Centering).  I  beg  pardon  for  letting  you 
wait  so  long. 

LEO.  It  is  my  fault,  of  course.  I  came  too  early, 
though  I  tried  to  come  at  the  appointed  hour. 

YADVIGA.  No.  I  must  be  frank  and  say  how  it  was. 
Formerly  we  were  so  well  acquainted  —  but  we  have  not 
seen  each  other  for  two  years.  I  invited  you,  but  I  was 
not  sure  that  you  would  come ;  so,  when  the  door-bell 
rang  —  after  two  years  (with  a  smile)  —  I  needed  a  little 
time  to  control  my  emotion.  I  thought  that  time  was 
needed  somewhat  by  both  of  us. 

LEO.     I  am  calm,  madam,  and  listen  to  you. 

YADVIGA.  I  wished  too  that  we  should  greet  each 
other  as  people  who  have  forgotten  the  past,  who  know 
that  it  will  not  return,  and  are  immediately  as  good 
friends  —  I  dare  not  say  as  brother  and  sister ;  so,  here 
is  my  hand,  and  now  pray  be  seated,  and  say  if  you  accept 
the  agreement. 

LEO.     I  accommodate  myself  to  your  wishes. 

YADVIGA.  In  that  case  I  will  say  further,  that  such 
an  agreement,  resting  on  mutual  good-will,  excludes  ex- 


WHOSE   FAULT?  141 

cessive  coldness.  We  must  be  natural,  sincere,  and 
outspoken. 

LEO.     All  that  will  be  a  little  difficult  indeed,  but  — 

YADVIGA.  It  would  be  difficult,  were  it  not  for  the 
first  condition :  not  a  word  touching  the  past !  If  we 
hold  to  this  point,  both  of  us,  good-will  may  appear  of 
itself,  and  we  may  become  friends  in  time.  What  have 
you  been  doing  these  two  years  ? 

LEO.  Pushing  the  wheelbarrow  of  life,  like  all  mortals. 
Every  Monday  I  thought  to  myself  that  in  a  week  there 
would  be  another  Monday.  There  is  a  certain  amusement 
in  this,  I  assure  you,  to  see  how  such  days  unwind  like 
thread  from  a  ball,  and  how  everything  which  has  hap- 
pened goes  off  and  vanishes  gradually  from  the  eye,  like 
a  bird  which  flies  away. 

YADVIGA.  That  amusement  is  pleasant  for  those  to 
whom  a  new  bird  will  fly  from  the  future  with  a  new 
song.  But  in  the  opposite  case  — 

LEO.  In  the  opposite  case  we  may  imagine  greater 
amusement, —  this,  that  when  everything  is  unwound  from 
the  ball  nothing  will  remain.  Memories  are  very  pain- 
ful on  occasions.  It  is  lucky  that  time  dulls  them,  other- 
wise they  would  prick  like  a  thorn. 

YADVIGA.     Or  burn  like  fire. 

LEO.  Wise  Nature  has  invented  a  cure  for  that.  Fire 
without  fuel  must  die,  and  dead  coals  do  not  burn. 

YADVIGA.  We  both  chase,  in  spite  of  us,  the  bird 
that  has  flown.  But  no  matter.  Have  you  painted 
much  recently  ? 

LEO.  I  never  do  anything  else :  I  think,  and  I  paint. 
True,  I  have  not  invented  much  thus  far,  and  I  have  not 
finished  much  painting.  That  is  not  my  fault,  however. 
But  tell  me  plainly,  why  have  you  summoned  me  ? 

YADVIGA.     That   will   reveal   itself.     First,   even   my 


142  WHOSE   FAULT? 

curiosity  to  see  a  great  man  should  be  an  explanation 
You  have  painted  so  much  that  your  name  is  known  in 
all  Europe  to-day. 

LEO.  You  may  suspect  me  of  conceit,  but  I  think 
really  that  I  have  not  been  a  chance  pawn  on  the  society 
chessboard,  and  this  is  the  reason  perhaps,  that  for  two 
years  I  have  been  thinking,  but  could  not  understand 
why  I  was  killed  and  thrown  aside,  like  a  common  pawn. 

YADVIGA.     But  our  agreement  ? 

LEO.  That  is  a  story  told  circumstantially,  as  it  were, 
by  a  third  person.  Satisfying  another  condition  of  our 
agreement,  sincerity,  I  add  that  I  have  grown  accustomed 
to  my  wheelbarrow. 

YADVIGA.     Let  us  not  mention  it. 

LEO.     I  forewarn  you  that  that  will  be  difficult. 

YADVIGA.  It  should  be  easier  for  you.  You  are  the 
chosen  one  of  art,  the  glory  of  a  whole  people,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  spoiled  child.  You  have  something  to  live 
for,  something  to  draw  from.  From  the  flowers  cast  at 
his  feet,  a  man  may  always  select  the  most  beautiful,  or 
not  select,  and  walk  ever  on  flowers  and  flowers. 

LEO.     Till  he  drops. 

YADVIGA.     No  !  passes  on  to  immortality. 

LEO.     Yearning  for  death  on  the  road. 

YADVIGA.  That  is  too  pessimistic ;  it  is  like  the  man 
who  says  that  he  is  accustomed  to  his  wheelbarrow. 

LEO.  I  wished  merely  to  paint  the  reverse  of  the  medal. 
Besides  pessimism  is  very  fashionable  to-day.  I  beg  you 
not  to  take  my  words  literally.  In  a  drawing-room  ex- 
pressions are  shifted  on  the  thread  of  conversation  like 
beads  in  a  rosary.  That  is  simply  an  amusement. 

YADVIGA.  Let  us  amuse  ourselves  then  —  (After  a 
while.}  But  how  many  changes !  I  cannot  take  them  in. 
If  any  one  had  told  me  two  years  ago  that  we  should  be 


WHOSE  FAULT?  143 

sitting  here  to-day  so  distant,  conversing  as  we  are,  and 
looking  at  each  other  with  such  watchful  curiosity,  like 
two  utter  strangers,  I  should  not  have  believed  it.  Oh, 
this  is  very  entertaining  indeed ! 

LEO.     It  does  not  become  me  to  recall  our  agreement. 

YADVIGA.  And  still  you  recall  it —  I  thank  you  !  This 
melancholy  turn  is  the  fault  of  my  nerves.  But  I  feel 
that  it  does  not  become  me.  Even  though  vanity  were 
my  only  restraint,  I  shall  not  enter  that  thorny  path 
again,  be  assured.  I  too  amuse  myself  as  I  can,  and 
return  to  former  memories  only  because  I  am  bored.  For 
some  days  past  I  have  suffered  atrociously. 

LEO.  And  therefore  commanded  me  to  come.  I  fear 
that  my  person  will  not  be  a  very  rich  source  of  amuse- 
ment. I  am  a  man  with  a  poor  disposition  for  joyous- 
ness  ;  as  a  subject  of  diversion,  I  have  too  much  value, 
I  am  too  proud  and  too  honest.  Permit .  me  to  take 
leave. 

YADVIGA.  I  beg  you  to  pardon  me.  I  had  no  wish  to 
offend  you.  Without  returning  to  former  memories,  I  can 
say,  that  pride  is  your  greatest  defect ;  had  it  not  been  for 
pride,  many  very  sad  things  would  not  have  happened. 

LEO.  Without  returning  to  former  memories,  I  answer 
you  that  that  is  the  only  sail  which  has  remained  on  my 
bark.  The  wind  of  life  has  torn  all  the  others.  Had  it 
not  been  for  this  last  one,  1  should  have  gone,  I  think,  to 
the  bottom  long  ago. 

YADVIGA.  On  the  contrary,  I  judge  that  to  be  a  rock 
on  which  has  been  shattered  not  only  your  ship  —  But 
no  more  of  this !  So  much  the  worse  for  those  who  had 
faith  in  good  weather  and  a  smooth  sea.  Let  us  not  per- 
mit even  this  time  the  current  to  bear  us  to  places  where 
we  do  not  wish  to  sail. 

LEO.     And  where  beyond  doubt  there  are  shallows  — 


144  WHOSE  FAULT? 

YADVIGA.  Ei !  we  are  carrying  on  a  strange  conversa- 
tion. It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  a  net  in  which  truth  at 
the  bottom  of  the  soul  is  struggling  in  vain,  without 
power  to  break  the  meshes.  But,  perhaps,  it  is  better  so. 

LEO.  It  is  far  better.  You  wrote  to  me  that  you 
summoned  me  on  an  affair  which  does  not  suffer  delay 
—  I  am  listening  to  you. 

YADVIGA.  Yes!  (With  a  smile.)  A  society  lady  is  free 
to  have  fancies  and  whims,  at  times  inexplicable  fancies, 
which  however  gentlemen  are  not  free  to  refuse.  Now  I 
wish  to  have  my  portrait  painted  by  the  hand  of  the 
master  Leo.  Are  you  willing  to  paint  it  ? 

LEO.     Madam  — 

YADVIGA.  Ah !  the  forehead  of  the  lion  is  wrinkled 
precisely  as  if  by  this  wish  I  had  desired  to  inflict  some 
insult  on  him. 

LEO.  I  think  only  that  society  ladies  have  fancies  at 
times  very  hard  to  explain,  and  quite  unlike  pleasantries. 

YADVIGA.  This  question  has  two  sides.  The  first,  the 
formal  one,  appears  in  this  form  :  Pani  Yadviga  Kar- 
lovetski  begs  most  politely  the  renowned  master,  Leo,  to 
paint  her  portrait.  That  is  all !  The  master,  who,  as  is 
known,  paints  many  portraits,  has  no  reason  to  refuse. 
An  artist  cannot  refuse  a  portrait  any  more  than  a  doctor 
advice.  Only  another  side  remains  —  the  past.  But  we 
have  agreed  not  to  mention  it. 

LEO.     Permit  me,  madam  — 

YADVIGA  (interrupting).  Ah  !  my  woman's  diplomacy 
knows  how  to  tie  the  knot  and  hide  the  ends  in  water. 
How  I  am  amused  by  your  vexation  !  But  there  is  some- 
thing else  in  this.  Admit  that  I  am  an  empty  creature, 
full  of  female  vanity,  petty  envy,  and  jealousy.  Now  you 
have  painted  the  portraits  of  Pani  Zofia  and  Pani  Helena, 
I  wish  to  have  mine  also.  This  is  a  thing  not  refused 


WHOSE   FAULT?  145 

women.  Your  fame  reaches  me  from  all  sides ;  round 
about  I  hear  the  words,  "  Our  great  master !  "  Society  is 
tearing  you  to  pieces.  God  knows  how  many  bosoms  are 
heaving  for  you  with  a  sigh.  All  can  have  your  works  ; 
all  may  approach  you,  see  you,  boast  of  your  acquaintance ; 
I  alone,  the  comrade  of  your  childhood's  years,  your  old 
acquaintance,  I  alone  am  banned. 

LEO.     Pani  Yadviga ! 

YADVIGA.  Ah,  you  have  called  me  by  name  !  I  thank 
you,  and  beg  pardon  earnestly  for  what  I  have  said.  It 
was  woman's  vanity  that  spoke,  nothing  more ;  I  beg  you 
not  to  be  frightened  at  my  nerves.  You  see  how  danger- 
ous it  is  to  excite  me.  At  times  I  am  very  lonely,  after- 
ward I  am  unendurable.  But  now  I  am  calm.  For  that 
matter,  I  give  you  three  days  for  reflection.  If  you  will 
not  come,  I  beg  you  to  write  me  (smiling  sadly}.  Only  I 
warn  you,  that  if  you  neither  write  nor  come,  I  shall  tell 
on  all  sides  that  you  are  afraid  of  me,  and  thus  I  shall 
pacify  my  vanity.  Meanwhile,  out  of  regard  for  my 
nerves,  not  another  word  about  refusal,  not  a  word.  I 
am  a  trifle  ill,  and  therefore  capricious. 

LEO.  In  three  days  I  will  write  (rising  to  go} ;  and 
now  I  beg  leave  — 

YADVIGA.  Oh  !  ho !  Not  so  easily  !  I  think  seriously 
that  you  are  afraid  of  me.  I  know  indeed  that  I  have 
the  reputation  of  a  flirt  and  of  being  fickle ;  I  know 
that  people  even  speak  ill  of  me ;  but  really  I  am  not 
so  black  as  I  seem.  Besides  we  are  such  good  acquaint- 
ances, who  once  —  who  have  not  seen  each  other  for  two 
years.  So  let  us  talk  a  little.  I  beg  you  to  give  me 
your  hat.  That  is  right !  Now  let  us  talk.  Indeed,  we 
can  be  friends  yet.  I  at  least —  What  have  you  in 
view  for  the  future,  besides  painting  my  portrait  ? 

LEO.  We  should  exhaust  a  conversation  about  me  very 

10 


146  WHOSE  FAULT? 

quickly.    Let  us  choose  another  subject,  more  interesting. 
Speak  of  yourself,  of  your  life,  your  family. 

YADVIGA.  My  husband,  as  usual,  is  in  Chantilly. 
Mamma  is  dead !  Poor  mamma,  she  was  very  friendly 
to  you ;  she  loved  you  much  —  (After  a  while.)  I,  as  you 
see,  have  grown  old ;  I  have  changed  beyond  recognition. 

LEO.  At  your  age  the  words,  "  I  have  grown  old,"  are 
simply  a  bold  challenge  thrown  out  by  a  woman  who  is 
not  afraid  that  people  will  believe  her. 

YADVIGA.  I  am  twenty-three  years  of  age,  hence  I  am 
not  speaking  of  years ;  but  one  may  grow  old  morally. 
I  feel  to-day  that  I  resemble  in  no  way  that  Yadvinia  of 
Kalinovitse  whom  you  knew  so  well.  My  God  !  when 
I  remember  that  trust,  that  faith  in  life,  those  illusions 
of  a  maiden  desiring  to  be  happiness  to  herself  and  some 
one  else,  that  enthusiasm  for  everything  good  and  noble! 
—  whither  has  all  that  vanished,  whither  has  it  gone  ? 
And  to  think  that  I  was  really  that  honest  field-flower, 
and  to-day  - 

LEO.     To-day  —  a  grand  lady  — 

YADVIGA.  To-day,  when  I  see  such  a  sceptical  smile 
as  I  saw  on  your  face  a  moment  ago,  it  seems  to  me  that 
sometimes  I  am  ridiculous,  —  that  I  am  so  even  often ;  as 
often  as  I  sit  down  to  an  ideal  embroidery-frame,  and  on 
the  canvas  of  the  forgotten,  vanished,  and  despised  past 
embroider  faded  flowers.  That  is  an  old  fashion  of  the 
time  when  faithfulness  was  taken  seriously,  and  people 
sang  songs  about  Philo. 

LEO.  At  this  moment  you  are  dropping  into  a  strain 
of  the  newest  fashion. 

YADVIGA.  Am  I  to  weep,  or  can  I  take  up  a  broken 
thread  ?  Difficult !  Times  change.  Be  assured  that  I 
have  my  better  moments,  in  which  I  laugh  heartily  at 
everything  (giving  him  a  cigarette).  Do  you  smoke! 


WHOSE  FAULT?  147 

LEO.     No,  madam. 

YADVIGA.  I  do.  This  is  also  a  diversion.  Sometimes 
I  hunt  par  force  with  my  husband ;  I  read  Zola's  novels ;  I 
make  visits ;  I  receive ;  and  every  morning  I  think  how  to 
kill  time.  One  day  I  succeed  —  another  I  fail.  Apropos, 
you  know  my  husband,  of  course  ? 

LEO.     I  knew  him  long  ago. 

YADVIGA.  He  is  very  fond  of  hunting,  but  only  par 
force.  We  never  hunt  otherwise. 

LEO.     Let  us  be  sincere.     Cast  aside  this  false  note. 

YADVIGA.  On  the  contrary.  In  these  times  we  need 
impressions  which  rouse  the  nerves.  The  latest  thing  in 
music,  as  well  as  in  life,  is  composed  of  dissonances.  I  do 
not  wish  to  say  by  this  that  I  am  unhappy  with  my 
husband.  It  is  true  that  he  lives  always  in  Chantilly, 
so  I  see  him  only  once  in  three  months;  but  this  shows 
confidence  on  his  part.  Does  it  not  ? 

LEO.  I  know  not,  and  have  no  wish  to  decide,  and 
above  all  I  ought  not  to  know  of  it. 

YADVIGA.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  you  ought  to 
know  of  it.  I  beg  you  to  be  assured  that  with  no  other 
person  should  I  be  so  outspoken;  but  we  are  such  old 
acquaintances.  I  do  not  complain.  I  surround  myself 
with  young  people  who  feign  to  be  in  love  with  me. 
There  is  not  substance  to  the  value  of  a  copper  in  what 
they  say ;  they  lie  till  one's  ears  wither ;  but  the  form 
is  very  beautiful,  for  they  are  all  well-bred.  Count 
Skorzevski  visits  me  also,  you  must  have  heard  of  him. 
I  recommend  him  to  you  as  a  model  for  Adonis.  Ha! 
ha !  you  could  not  recognize  the  "  field-flower 1  from 
Kalinovitse." 

LEO.     True,  I  could  not  recognize  it. 

1  Yadviga,  or  Yadvinia,  as  she  calls  herself  on  page  146,  par.  3,  is  from 
Kalinovitse,  hence  she  calls  herself  here  the  "  field-flower  of  Kalinovitse." 


148  WHOSE  FAULT? 

YAD\IGA.     Ha  !  but  life  rolls  on. 

LEO.     In  jests  — 

YADVIGA.  At  which  one  does  not  wish  always  to  laugh. 
If  this  were  not  such  a  sceptical  age,  I  should  pretend  to 
be  a  wild,  romantic  nature  striving  to  deaden  some 
despair.  But  romantic  times  have  passed,  hence  I  wish 
really  to  fill  up  a  great  void.  I  too  unwind  my  ball, 
though  not  always  with  pleasure.  At  times  I  seem  to 
myself  so  mean,  vain,  and  miserable  that  I  run  to  that 
praying-stool  there,  which  I  inherited  from  my  mother ;  I 
cry  out  my  fill  over  it,  and  I  pray  —  and  then  again  I 
laugh  at  the  weeping  and  the  praying.  So  it  goes  round 
and  round!  Do  you  know  that  people  weave  scandal 
about  me  ? 

LEO.     I  do  not  listen  to  them. 

YADVIGA.  How  kind  of  you  !  So  I  will  tell  you  why 
they  weave  these  scandals.  A  certain  missionary  asked 
a  negro  what  his  idea  of  evil  was.  The  negro  thought 
awhile,  and  answered,  "Evil  is  when  somebody  steals 
my  wife."  "  And  good,  what  is  that  ? "  asked  the  mission- 
ary. "  Good,"  answered  the  negro,  "  is  when  I  steal  some 
other  man's  wife."  My  husband's  friends  agree  with 
that  negro.  Each  one  of  them  would  be  glad  to  do  such 
a  good  deed,  and  steal  another  man's  wife. 

LEO.     That  depends  on  the  wife. 

YADVIGA.  True  !  but  every  word  and  look  is  the  bait. 
"When  the  fish  avoids  the  hook,  the  fisherman's  vanity  is 
indignant.  That  is  why  they  invent  lies  about  me.  (After 
a  while.)  You  great  people  are  full  of  simplicity.  Hence 
you  assert  that  this  depends  on  the  wife. 

LEO.    True,  it  does. 

YADVIGA.  Morbleu  !  as  my  husband  says,  and  if  the 
wife  is  bored  ? 

LEO.     I  take  farewell  of  you. 


WHOSE   FAULT?  149 

YADVIGA.     Why  ?     Does  what  I  say  offend  you  ? 

LEO.  More  than  offends  —  it  pains.  Perhaps  this  may 
seem  ridiculous  to  you  to-day,  but  here  in  my  bosom  I 
bear  flowers,  withered,  it  is  true,  long  since  dead ;  but,  for 
me,  they  are  precious,  and  you  are  trampling  them  at  this 
moment. 

YADVIGA  (with  an  outburst).  Oh,  if  those  flowers  had 
not  died !  — 

LEO.  They  are  lying  in  my  heart  — and  that  is  a 
grave.  Let  us  leave  the  past  in  peace. 

YADVIGA.  True,  you  are  right,  let  us  leave  it  in 
peace.  What  is  dead  will  not  rise  again.  I  wish  to 
speak  calmly.  Look  at  my  position  :  What  defends  me, 
what  arm  sustains  me,  what  shields  me  ?  I  am  young, 
and  not  ugly  perhaps ;  so  no  one  approaches  me  with  a 
simple,  honest  heart,  but  always  with  a  snare  in  his  eyes 
and  on  his  lips.  What  have  I  to  raise  against  that  — 
weariness,  regret,  emptiness  ?  In  life,  even  a  man  must 
hold  to  something;  but  I,  a  weak  woman,  am  like  a  boat 
without  a  rudder,  without  an  oar,  without  a  light  to 
which  I  might  steer.  Still  my  heart  is  tearing  forth  to 
happiness.  Will  you  understand  that  a  woman  must  be 
loved,  and  must  love  somebody  in  the  world,  otherwise, 
through  lack  of  genuine  feeling,  she  will  grasp  after  the 
first  semblance  of  it,  the  first  shadow  — 

LEO  (feverishly).     Poor  — 

YADVIGA.  Do  not  laugh  sneeringly.  Be  kinder,  be 
less  harsh  to  me.  I  have  not  even  any  one  before 
whom  I  could  complain,  and  for  that  reason  I  do  not 
dismiss  Count  Skorzevski.  I  am  disgusted  with  his 
beauty  ;  I  despise  his  perverse  mind ;  but  I  do  not  dismiss 
him,  for  he  plays  like  a  trained  actor,  and  when  I  look 
at  his  play  the  echoes  of  ancient  memories  are  roused 
in  me  —  (After  a  while.)  With  what  shall  I  fill  life  ? 


150  WHOSE  FAULT? 

Science  ?  art  ?  —  even  if  I  loved  them  they  will  not  love 
me,  for  they  are  not  living  beings.  No  !  —  in  truth  they 
are  not !  No  duties  are  pointed  out  to  me,  no  objects,  no 
basis.  Everything  with  which  other  women  live,  which 
forms  their  world,  their  happiness,  their  heartfelt  conso- 
lation, their  strength,  their  tears  and  smiles,  are  closed 
to  me.  Morally,  I  am  like  a  beggar ;  I  have  nothing  to 
live  on.  Like  an  orphan,  I  have  no  one  to  live  for.  I 
am  not  even  free  to  yearn  for  an  honest  life  and  a  quiet 
one ;  I  may  only  nourish  myself  with  regret,  and  defend 
myself  with  the  fragments  of  faded  flowers,  and  remem- 
brances of  the  past,  pure,  honest,  and  beloved  Yadvinia. 
Ah !  again  I  am  breaking  the  agreement  —  I  beg  your 
pardon ! 

LEO.  Pani  Yadviga !  —  life  has  become  a  tangle  for 
both  of  us.  If  I  were  very  unhappy,  if  everything  aban- 
doned me,  the  love  of  an  idea,  love  of  country  would 
remain. 

YADVIGA  (thoughtfully}.  The  love  of  an  idea  —  of 
country.  In  this  there  is  something  very  great.  You 
bring  glory  to  the  country  by  every  picture  you  paint, 
you  glorify  its  name ;  but  what  can  I  do  ? 

LEO.  Whoever  lives  simply,  suffers,  fulfils  obligations 
in  silence,  serves  it. 

YADVIGA.  What  obligations  ?  Let  me  have  them. 
One  great  ideal  love  does  not  suffice  me  for  daily  life.  I 
am  a  woman  ;  I  must  cling  to  something,  wind  around 
something,  like  an  ivy;  otherwise  I  shall  fall  to  the 
ground  indeed,  and  people  will  walk  on  me.  (With  an 
outburst.)  If  I  could  even  respect  that  — 

LEO.  Pani  Yadviga !  Stop  before  you  come  to  him 
whom  you  have  in  mind.  I  "have  not  even  the  right  to 
know  of  your  family  relations. 

YADVIGA.    True !  not  only  not  the  right,  but  not  the 


WHOSE  FAULT?  151 

duty,  or  the  wish.  Friendly  hearts  alone  know  how  to 
give  solace ;  only  suffering  ones  know  how  to  give  sym- 
pathy. You  are  lost  gazing  at  the  stars;  the  wheel  of 
human  misfortune  passes  by,  and  you  do  not  turn  your 
head,  though  that  misfortune  should  shout  at  you :  this 
is  your  fault. 

LEO.     My  fault  ? 

YADVIGA.  Oh,  do  not  wrinkle  your  brow  and  press 
your  lips  (folding  her  arms).  I  wish  to  make  no  re- 
proach —  I  have  forgiven  long  ago,  and  now  I,  the  giddy 
woman,  whom  people  see  joyous  and  smiling,  am  so  poor 
that  I  should  not  have  strength  even  for  hatred. 

LEO.  Enough  —  I  have  heard  your  history  ;  do  not 
bring  me  to  tell  you  mine.  Should  you  hear  it,  a  still 
greater  burden  would  fall  on  your  shoulders. 

YADVIGA.  No !  no !  We  might  have  been  happy, 
and  —  we  are  not.  This  is  the  fault  of  both.  What  de- 
spair to  think  that  we  parted  for  a  mere  nothing,  for  one 
inconsiderate  expression,  and  parted  forever  (she  covers 
her  face  with  her  hands)  —  without  hope,  without  salva- 
tion ! 

LEO.  That  expression  was  for  you,  madam,  a  nothing ; 
but  I  remember  it  to  this  moment  with  my  heart  and 
brain.  I  was  not  then  what  I  am  to-day.  I  was  poor,  un- 
known, and  you  were  all  my  future,  my  object  in  life,  my 
wealth. 

LADVIGA.  Oh,  Leo !  Leo !  what  a  golden  dream  that 
was  — 

LEO.  But  I  was  proud,  for  I  felt  that  there  was  a 
spark  of  divinity  in  me.  I  loved  you  beyond  every- 
thing, and  nothing  darkened  the  sky  above  me,  till  one 
evening  Pan  Karlovetski  appeared,  and  the  very  next 
evening  you  told  me  that  you  were  giving  more  than  you 
received  — 


152  WHOSE   FAULT? 

YADVIGA.     Leo  1 

LEO.  What  inclined  you  to  give  that  slap  on  the  face 
to  my  proud  wretchedness,  I  do  not  know  to  this  mo- 
ment. You  could 'not  have  loved  that  man  then,  but 
barely  had  he  shown  himself,  when  you  humiliated  me. 
There  are  wrongs  which  a  man  who  feels  his  dignity  can- 
not endure,  hence  those  were  the  last  words  which  I 
heard  from  you. 

YADVIGA.  In  truth,  when  I  hear  what  you  say,  I  need 
to  keep  myself  in  check.  Hardly  had  that  man  shown 
himself,  when  you  burst  out  in  jealousy.  I  said  that  I 
gave  more  than  I  received.  You  thought,  did  you,  that  I 
was  speaking  of  money,  not  of  feeling  ?  And  suspected 
that  I  wished  to  throw  my  wealth  in  your  eyes.  You 
considered  me  capable  of  that?  Was  that  why  you  did 
not  pardon  ?  Was  that  why  you  went  away  ?  Was  that 
why  you  broke  your  life  and  mine  ? 

LEO.  It  is  too  late  to  speak  of  this  !  Too  late  !  You 
knew  then,  and  you  know  to-day,  that  I  could  not  under- 
stand your  words  otherwise.  In  him  you  felt  a  man  of 
your  society  of  which  you  were  so  fond  that  more  than 
once  it  seemed  to  me  that  this  society  was  dearer  to  you 
than  even  our  love.  In  these  doubts  of  suffering  you  did 
not  set  me  at  rest.  You  were  amused  by  the  idea  of 
extending  a  hand  to  me  first.  I,  in  a  moment  when 
the  measure  was  passed,  in  a  moment  of  humiliation, 
rejected  that  hand.  You  knew  this  then,  you  know  it 
to-day. 

YADVIGA.  I  know  it  to-day,  but  I  did  not  know  it  then. 
I  swear  to  you  by  the  memory  of  my  mother  !  But  even 
had  it  been  so,  why  did  you  not  forgive  ?  0  God !  in 
truth  one  might  lose  one's  senses.  And  there  was 
neither  time  nor  means  to  explain  anything.  You  went 
away  and  showed  yourself  no  more.  What  could  I  do  ? 


WHOSE   FAULT?  153 

When  you  became  angry,  when  you  so  confined  yourself 
within  your  own  person,  sorrow  pressed  my  heart  —  and 
I  am  ashamed  even  to-day  to  tell  it;  but  I  looked  into 
your  eyes  like  a  lap-dog  which  wishes  to  dissipate  anger 
with  submission.  What  could  I  do !  I  thought  to  my- 
self :  At  parting,  I  will  press  his  hand  so  honestly  and 
so  cordially  that  he  will  understand  and  forgive.  At 
parting,  my  hand  dropped,  for  you  bowed  from  a  distance. 
I  swallowed  my  tears  and  humiliation,  and  thought :  He 
will  return  to-morrow.  A  day  passed,  two,  then  a  week, 
a  month  — 

LEO.     Then  you  married. 

YADVIGA  (with  an  outburst).  Yes !  useless  tears  and 
time  taught  me  that  that  parting  was  forever;  hence 
anger  rose  in  my  heart,  the  wish  for  revenge  on  you  and 
myself.  I  wanted  to  be  lost,  for  I  said  to  myself :  That 
man  does  not  love  me  and  never  has  loved  me.  I  married 
then  as  if  I  were  to  spring  from  a  window  —  through 
despair,  for  I  believed  yet  that  you  did  not  love  me. 

LEO.  Madam,  do  not  blaspheme !  Do  not  bring  me 
to  an  outburst  — I  not  love  you  ?  Look  at  the  pit  which 
you  opened  under  my  feet.  Count  the  sleepless  nights 
in  which  I  tore  my  breast  from  pain ;  count  the  days  in 
which  I  called  to  you,  as  if  from  a  cross ;  look  at  this 
thin  face,  at  these  trembling  hands,  and  say  again  that 
I  did  not  love  you  !  What  has  happened  to  me  ?  What 
has  my  life  been  without  you  ?  To-day  this  head  is  in 
laurels ;  but  here  in  my  breast  it  is  dumb,  empty ;  inex- 
haustible sorrow  is  here,  with  unwept  tears ;  but  in  my 
eyes  are  eternal  darkness.  Oh,  by  the  living  God !  I  loved 
you  with  every  drop  of  my  blood,  with  every  thought ; 
and  I  could  not  have  loved  otherwise.  Losing  you,  I  lost 
everything:  my  star,  my  strength,  my  faith,  my  hope, 
my  wish  for  life,  and  not  only  happiness,  but  the  power 


154  WHOSE  FAULT? 

of  happiness.  Woman,  do  you  understand  the  meaning 
of  this  expression  :  I  lost  the  power  of  happiness  ?  Did 
I  not  love  you  ?  Oh,  despair,  God  alone  knows  how 
many  nights  I  called  to  Him :  0  Lord !  take  my  talent, 
take  my  fame,  take  my  life,  and  return  for  one  moment 
to  me  my  Yadviga,  as  she  once  was  — 

YADVIGA.  Enough.  0  God !  what  is  happening  to  me  ! 
Leo  !  I  love  thee. 

LEO.  My  Yadviga  !  (Presses  her  to  his  bosom.  A  mo- 
ment of  silence.) 

YADVIGA.  I  have  found  thee  again.  I  loved  thee 
always.  Ah !  how  wretched  I  was  in  the  world  with- 
out thee.  I  have  defended  that  love  thus  far  from  every 
one.  Thou  knowest  not  of  this,  but  I  used  to  see  thee ! 
That  caused  me  delight  and  pain.  I  could  not  live 
longer,  so  I  summoned  thee.  I  did  that  purposely.  If 
thou  hadst  not  come,  something  terrible  would  have  hap- 
pened. Now  we  shall  not  separate ;  we  shall  never  be 
angry  with  each  other,  —  shall  we  ?  (A  moment  of 
silence.) 

LEO  (wakening  as  if  from  sleep).  Madam,  forgive  me. 
The  present  moment  thrust  itself  in  instead  of  the  past, 
so  I  let  myself  be  borne  away  by  an  illusion.  Pardon 
me ! 

YADVIGA.     What  sayest  thou,  Leo  ? 

LEO  (severely).  I  forgot  for  a  moment,  madam,  that 
you  are  the  wife  of  another. 

YADVIGA.  Oh,  thou  art  ever  just  and  honorable.  No, 
we  shall  not  carry  on  a  guilty  romance.  I  know  thee, 
my  great,  noble  Leo !  The  hand  which  is  extended  to 
thee  is  pure,  I  swear  it.  Pardon  me  also  a  moment  of 
forgetfulness.  I  stand  here  now,  and  I  say  that  I  will  not 
be  thine  till  I  am  free.  But  I  know  that  my  husband 
will  consent  to  a  divorce.  I  will  leave  him  all  my 


WHOSE  FAULT?  155 

property,  and,  since  I  wounded  at  one  time  your  pride,  for 
the  fault  was  mine  ;  yes  !  only  mine  ! — you  will  take  me 
poor,  in  this  one  dress  —  will  you  not  ?  It  will  be  well 
so  ?  Then  I  shall  be  your  lawful  wife.  O  my  God  !  and 
I  shall  be  honest,  and  loving,  and  loved.  I  yearned  for  it 
so  much  with  all  my  soul.  Of  our  future  I  cannot  think 
without  tears.  God  is  so  good  !  When  thou  shalt  return 
from  thy  studio  in  the  evening,  thou  wilt  not  return  to 
empty  walls,  or  to  regrets,  but  I  shall  wait  for  thee,  I  will 
share  every  delight  with  thee,  every  sorrow,  I  will  share 
them  with  thee  as  a  crust  of  bread.  In  truth,  I  cannot 
keep  from  tears.  See,  I  am  not  so  wicked,  so  malicious ; 
I  was  only  poor.  I  loved  thee  always !  Oh !  thou  art 
not  kind ;  had  it  not  been  for  thy  pride  this  would  have 
happened  long  ago.  Tell  me  once  more  that  thou  lovest 
me,  that  thou  wilt  consent  to  take  me  when  I  am  free,  — 
wilt  thou  not,  Leo  ? 

LEO.     No,  madam  — 

YADVIGA.  Leo,  my  beloved  !  Perhaps  I  have  not  heard 
clearly,  for  it  cannot  find  place  in  my  head  that  when  I 
am  hanging  over  an  abyss  of  despair  and  am  grasping  the 
brink  with  my  hands,  thou,  thou,  instead  of  giving  me  a 
hand,  art  treading  on  my  ringers  with  a  foot !  No,  that 
cannot  be !  Thou  art  too  good  to  do  that.  Do  not  reject 
me !  Life  now  would  rend  me  still  worse.  I  have  no 
one  in  the  world  but  thee,  and  thou  seest  that  with  thee 
I  lose  at  once,  not  only  happiness,  but  all  that  is  best  in 
me  yet,  which  calls  for  life,  quiet,  and  sacredness.  But 
now  it  would  be  finished  forever.  Thou  knowest  not  how 
happy  thou  wouldst  be  thyself,  if  thou  wouldst  forgive 
and  save  me.  But  thou  dost  love  me.  Thou  hast  said 
so ;  I  have  heard  it !  Now  I,  as  if  drowning,  stretch  my 
hands  to  thee,  Leo,  —  save  me  ? 

LEO.     It  is  time  to  finish  this  mutual  torture.     Madam, 


156  WHOSE   FAULT? 

I  am  a  weak  man  !  I  should  give  way  if  —  I  should  wish 
to  spare  you  were  it  not  that  my  suffering  and  dead  heart 
can  give  nothing  now  except  tears  and  compassion. 

YADVIGA.     Dost  thou  not  love  me  ? 

LEO.  I  have  no  strength  for  happiness.  I  loved  you. 
My  heart  quivered  for  a  moment  at  the  memory  of  it,  as 
for  the  memory  of  a  dead  woman;  but  that  woman  is 
dead.  In  pain  and  torture  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  love 
you. 

YADVIGA,     Leo ! 

LEO.     Have  pity  on  me,  and  forgive  me. 

YADVIGA.     Dost  thou  not  love  me  ? 

LEO.  What  is  dead  will  not  rise  again.  I  take  farewell 
of  you. 

YADVIGA  (after  a  while).  If  you  think  that  you  have 
humiliated  me  sufficiently,  that  you  have  trampled  me 
enough,  that  you  have  taken  vengeance  enough,  then  go. 
(He  wishes  to  go.)  No  !  no  !  remain  —  take  pity  on  me  — 

LEO.  Let  God  take  pity  on  you  —  and  on  me,  Yadviga, 
God  !  (He  goes  out.) 

YADVIGA.     It  is  over ! 

THE  SERVANT  (enters).     Count  Skorzevski  1 

YADVIGA.  Ah !  Beg  him  to  enter !  Beg  him  to 
enter !  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  (laughs  spasmodically). 


THE  DECISION  OF  ZEUS. 


THE  DECISION  OF  ZEUS. 

ONE  evening  Apollo  and  Hermes  met  on  the  Pnyx, 
and,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  rock,  looked  at 
Athens. 

The  evening  was  wonderful ;  the  sun  had  advanced  from 
the  Archipelago  to  the  Ionian  Sea,  and  was  bringing  his 
radiant  head  slowly  into  the  smooth  turquoise-colored 
liquid  plain.  But  the  summits  of  Hymettus  and  Pen- 
telicus  were  gleaming  yet,  as  if  covered  with  molten  gold. 
The  brightness  of  evening  was  in  the  sky;  and  the 
whole  Archipelago  was  sunk  in  the  gleams  of  it.  The 
white  marbles  of  the  Propyleus,  the  Parthenon,  and  the 
Erechtheum  seemed  rosy,  and  as  light  as  if  the  stone  had 
lost  all  weight,  or  as  if  those  buildings  were  a  dream- 
vision.  The  point  of  the  gigantic  spear  of  Athene 
Promachus  blazed  in  the  gleam  like  a  torch  lighted  above 
Attica. 

In  the  sky  floated,  with  outspread  wings,  a  few  falcons 
moving  toward  their  night  repose,  to  nests  concealed  in 
mountain  cliffs. 

People  were  returning  in  crowds  from  field  labor  to  the 
city.  Along  the  road  from  the  Piraeus  passed  mules  and 
asses  carrying  panniers  at  their  sides,  full  of  olives  or 
golden  grapes ;  behind  them,  in  ruddy  clouds  of  dust, 
came  flocks  of  crooked-horned  goats,  in  front  of  each 
flock  a  white  bearded  he-goat,  at  the  sides  watchful  dogs, 
behind  herdsmen  playing  on  bagpipes  or  slender  whistles 
of  thin  oat-straw. 


160  THE   DECISION   OF   ZEUS. 

Among  the  flocks  wagons  bearing  the  divine  barley 
moved  slowly  on  drawn  by  sluggish  oxen ;  here  and  there 
passed  divisions  of  hoplites  arrayed  in  brass  armor,  hasten- 
ing to  their  night  watch  at  the  Piraeus  or  in  Athens. 

Lower  Athens  was  still  seething  with  life.  At  the  great 
fountain  near  the  Poikile,  young  girls  in  white  garments 
were  drawing  water,  laughing  loudly,  or  defending  them- 
selves against  boys,  who  were  throwing  ivy  or  grapevine 
fetters  over  them.  Others,  who  had  taken  water  already, 
had  amphoras  on  their  shoulders,  and,  with  arms  raised 
upward,  were  moving  toward  their  homes,  graceful  and 
charming,  like  immortal  nymphs. 

A  mild  breeze,  blowing  from  the  plain  of  Attica,  brought 
to  the  ears  of  the  two  divinities  sounds  of  laughter,  sing- 
ing, and  kisses. 

The  Far-shooting  Apollo,  for  whose  eyes  nothing  under 
heaven  was  more  precious  than  a  woman,  turned  to  the 
Slayer  of  Argus,  and  said,  — 

"0  son  of  Maia,  how  beautiful  are  the  women  of 
Athens!" 

"  And  virtuous,  my  Kadiant  One,"  answered  Hermes ; 
"  for  they  are  under  the  tutelage  of  Pallas  Athene. " 

The  god  of  the  Silver-bow  was  silent,  and  looked,  and 
continued  to  listen.  Meanwhile  the  red  of  evening 
quenched  slowly ;  movement  stopped  by  degrees.  Scythian 
slaves  closed  the  gates,  and  finally  all  things  were  silent. 
Immortal  night  cast  a  dark  curtain,  dotted  with  stars, 
over  the  Acropolis,  the  city,  and  the  region  about. 

But  darkness  did  not  last  long.  Soon  pale  Selene  rose 
from  the  Archipelago,  and  sailed  like  a  silver  boat  through 
the  expanse  of  the  sky.  Again  the  marbles  of  the 
Acropolis  shone,  but  this  time  with  a  light  which  was 
bright  green,  and  they  resembled  still  more  a  dream- 
vision. 


THE   DECISION   OF  ZEUS.  161 

"It  must  be  confessed,"  said  the  Far-shooter,  "that 
Athene  has  chosen  a  marvellous  abode." 

"  Ha,  she  is  wise !  Who  could  choose  better  than 
she  ? "  answered  Hermes.  "  Besides,  Zeus  has  a  wonderful 
weakness  for  her.  If  she  just  begs  him  for  something, 
strokes  his  beard ;  straightway  he  calls  her  his  Tritogeneia, 
beloved  daughter,  promises  and  permits  everything  with 
a  nod  of  his  head. " 

"  Tritogeneia  annoys  me  at  times,"  muttered  the  son  of 
Latona. 

"I,  too,  have  noticed  that  she  becomes  annoying," 
answered  Hermes. 

"  As  an  old  peripatetic,  and  besides  she  is  disgustingly 
virtuous,  just  like  Artemis,  my  sister." 

"  Or  like  her  own  wards,  the  women  of  Athens." 

The  Radiant  Apollo  turned  to  the  Slayer  of  Argus : 

"  Thou  speakest  a  second  time,  as  if  purposely,  of  the 
virtue  of  Athenian  women.  Are  they  in  truth  so 
unbending  ? " 

"  Fabulously  so,  0  son  of  Latona !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  said  Apollo.  "  But  thinkest  thou  that 
there  is  even  one  in  this  city  who  could  resist  me  ? " 

"  I  think  there  is." 

"  Resist  me,  Apollo  ? " 

"  Thee,  0  Radiant  Divinity." 

"  Me,  the  god  who  subdues  by  poetry,  who  charms  by 
music  and  song  ? " 

"  Thee,  0  Radiant  One  ! " 

"If  thou  wert  an  honest  god,  I  should  be  willing  to 
wager  with  thee.  But,  Slayer  of  Argus,  if  thou  lose,  thou 
wilt  fly  off  at  once  with  thy  sandals  and  staff,  and  that  is 
the  last  that  I  shall  see  of  thee ! " 

"No.  I  will  put  one  hand  on  the  earth,  the  other 
on  the  sea,  and  swear  by  Hades.  This  oath  is  re' 

11 


162  THE   DECISION   OF  ZEUS. 

spected  not  only  by  me  but  even  by  the  magistrates  of 
Athens." 

"  Well,  thou  art  exaggerating  again !  But  I  agree  !  If 
thou  lose,  thou  must  bring  to  me,  in  Thrinacia,  a  herd  of 
long-horned  oxen,  which  thou  wilt  steal  from  whomever 
thou  wishest,  as  thou  didst  steal,  in  thy  time,  when  a  boy, 
my  herds  in  Pieria." 

"  Agreed.     But  what  shall  I  get  if  I  win  ? " 

"  Make  thy  own  choice." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Far-shooter,  I  will  be  outspoken,  which, 
as  thou  knowest,  does  not  happen  with  me  often. 
Once  sent  by  Zeus,  I  do  not  remember  on  what  errand, 
I  was  flying  over  thy  Thrinacia,  and  I  saw  Lampetia 
with  Phsethusa,  who  was  guarding  thy  cattle  there.  From 
that  moment  I  have  had  no  peace.  Lampetia  does  not 
leave  my  eyes,  does  not  leave  my  memory ;  I  love  her,  and 
sigh  night  and  day  to  her.  If  I  win,  if  in  Athens  there 
be  found  a  woman  so  virtuous  as  to  resist  thee,  thou  shalt 
give  me  Lampetia.  I  ask  nothing  more. " 

He  of  the  Silver-bow  nodded. 

"Very  gladly,  since  love  can  fix  itself  even  in  the 
heart  of  the  patron  of  merchants.  I  will  give  thee 
Lampetia,  the  more  readily  since  now  she  cannot  agree 
with  Phaethusa ;  I  may  say,  in  parenthesis,  that  both  are 
in  love  with  me,  and,  therefore,  are  quarrelling." 

Great  joy  shot  from  the  eyes  of  the  Slayer  of  Argus. 

"  The  wager  is  made,  then,"  said  he.  "But  one  thing, — 
I  will  select  for  thee  the  woman  on  whom  thou  art  to  try 
thy  divine  power." 

"  If  she  is  beautiful." 

"  She  will  be  worthy  of  thee." 

"  Confess  that  thou  hast  already  selected  one." 

"  I  confess." 

"  A  maiden,  a  wife,  or  a  widow  ? " 


THE  DECISION  OF  ZEUS.  163 

"  Of  course  a  wife.  Thou  mightst  influence  a  maiden 
or  a  widow  by  a  promise  of  marriage." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  " 

"  Eriphyle,  she  is  the  wife  of  a  baker." 

"  Of  a  baker  ? "  asked  the  bright  god,  with  a  wry  face  ; 
"  that  pleases  me  less." 

"  What  dost  thou  wish  ?  I  move  most  frequently  in 
those  circles.  Eriphyle's  husband  is  not  at  home  now ; 
he  has  gone  to  Megera.  The  woman  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful person  that  has  ever  walked  mother  earth." 

"  I  am  curious." 

"  One  condition  more,  my  Silver-bowed.  Promise  me 
that  thou  wilt  use  only  means  worthy  of  thee,  and  that 
thou  wilt  not  act,  for  instance,  like  that  boor,  Ares,  or 
even,  speaking  among  ourselves,  like  our  common  father, 
the  Cloud-compeller." 

"  For  whom  dost  thou  take  me  ? "  asked  Apollo. 

"  Then  all  the  conditions  are  accepted,  and  I  can  show 
thee  Eriphyle." 

The  air  bore  away  immediately  both  gods  from  the 
Pnyx,  and  soon  they  were  hanging  over  a  house  at  some 
distance  from  the  Stoa.  The  Slayer  of  Argus  raised  the 
whole  top  of  the  house  with  his  powerful  hand,  as 
easily  as  a  female,  cooking  food,  might  raise  a  pot-lid; 
and,  pointing  out  a  woman  sitting  in  a  shop,  closed  from 
the  street  by  a  copper  grating  and  a  woollen  curtain,  he 
said,  — 

"Look!" 

Apollo  looked,  and  was  petrified. 

Never  had  Attica,  never  had  the  Grecian  land,  given 
forth  a  more  beautiful  flower  than  that  woman.  She 
was  sitting  at  the  light  of  a  triple  lamp,  bent  over  a 
table,  and  was  writing  something  diligently  on  marble 
tablets.  Her  long,  drooping  lashes  cast  a  shadow  on  her 


164  THE  DECISION   OF  ZEUS. 

cheeks ;  at  times  she  raised  her  head  and  eyes  as  if  pon- 
dering and  calling  to  mind  what  she  had  to  write  yet ;  and 
then  her  marvellous  eyes  could  be  seen,  —  so  blue,  that, 
compared  with  them,  the  turquoise  surface  of  the  Archi- 
pelago would  have  seemed  pale  and  faded.  It  was  simply 
the  face  of  Kypris,  —  white  as  sea-foam,  rosy  as  the 
morning  dawn,  with  lips  of  the  color  of  Syrian  purple, 
and  golden  waves  of  hair,  —  beautiful,  the  most  beautiful 
on  earth,  beautiful  as  a  flower,  as  light  as  a  song. 

When  she  dropped  her  eyes,  she  seemed  calm  and 
sweet ;  when  she  raised  them  in  thought,  inspired.  The 
divine  legs  began  to  tremble  under  the  Kadiant  Apollo ; 
all  at  once  he  rested  his  head  on  the  shoulder  of  Hermes, 
and  whispered,  — 

"  Hermes,  I  love  her !     This  one,  or  none !  " 

Hermes  smiled  shrewdly,  and  would  have  rubbed  his 
palms  under  the  folds  of  his  robe,  had  he  not  held  his 
staff  in  the  right  hand. 

Meanwhile  the  golden-haired  woman  took  a  new  tablet, 
and  began  to  write  on  it.  She  opened  her  divine  lips, 
and  her  voice  whispered,  like  the  sound  of  a  lyre,  — 

"  Melanocles,  a  member  of  the  Areopagus,  for  bread 
during  two  months,  forty-five  drachmse  and  four  oboli ; 
for  the  sake  of  round  numbers  let  us  write  forty-six 
drachmae.  By  Athene  !  let  us  write  fifty ;  my  husband 
will  be  satisfied.  Ah,  Melanocles,  if  thou  wert  not  able 
to  fasten  onto  us  for  false  weights,  I  would  not  give 
thee  credit.  But  one  must  be  on  good  terms  with  that 
locust." 

Apollo  did  not  hear  the  words ;  he  only  intoxicated 
himself  with  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  charm  of  her 
figure,  and  whispered,  — 

"  That  one,  or  none !  " 

The  golden-haired  woman  wrote  on,  — 


THE  DECISION   OF  ZEUS.  165 

"  Alcibiades,  for  unleavened  cake  on  honey  from  Hy- 
mettus,  for  the  hetsera  Chrysalis,  three  minae.  He  never 
verifies  accounts,  besides,  he  slapped  me  on  the  shoulder 
once  in  the  Stoa  ;  we  will  write  down,  then,  four  minae. 
If  he  is  a  fool,  let  him  pay.  And  this  Chrysalis,  too  I 
She  feeds,  I  suppose,  her  carp  in  the  pond  with  cakes,  or, 
maybe,  Alcibiades  is  fattening  her  purposely  to  sell  her 
afterward  to  Phoenician  merchants  for  ivory  rings  to  put 
on  his  harness." 

Apollo  did  not  hear  the  words;  he  was  intoxicated 
with  the  voice,  and  whispered  to  Hermes,  — 

"  That  one,  or  none  ! " 

But  Maia's  son  covered  the  house  on  a  sudden,  and  the 
wonderful  vision  disappeared.  To  the  Eadiant  god,  it 
seemed  that  the  stars  were  vanishing,  the  moon  blacken- 
ing, and  the  whole  world  hiding  under  the  darkness  of 
Cimmerian  regions. 

"  When  is  the  wager  to  be  decided  ?  "  inquired  Hermes. 

"  To-day,  immediately !  " 

"During  her  husband's  absence,  she  sleeps  in  the  shop. 
Thou  mayst  stand  on  the  street  before  the  grating.  If 
she  pushes  the  curtain  aside,  and  opens  the  grating,  I 
have  lost  my  wager." 

"  Thou  hast  lost ! "  cried  the  Far-shooting  Apollo. 

And  not  so  swiftly  does  summer  lightning  pass  at  night 
from  the  east  to  the  west,  as  he  shot  over  the  salt  waves 
of  the  Archipelago.  There,  when  he  had  begged  Amphi- 
trite  for  an  empty  turtle-shell,  he  fastened  on  it  sun  rays, 
and  returned  to  Athens  with  a  finished  lyre. 

In  the  city  all  was  perfectly  silent ;  the  lights  were 
extinguished;  only  houses  and  temples  stood  white  in 
the  gleam  of  the  moon,  which  was  sailing  high  in  the 
heavens. 

The  shop  was  situated  in  a  gap  of  the  wall ;  and  in  it, 


166  THE   DECISION   OF  ZEUS. 

behind  the  grating  and  a  curtain,  slept  the  most  beautiful 
Eriphyle.  The.  Eadiant  Apollo,  halting  on  the  street,  be- 
gan to  touch  the  strings  of  his  lyre.  Wishing  to  rouse 
his  beloved  gently,  he  played  at  first  as  low  as  the  song 
of  mosquitoes  in  a  spring  evening  above  the  Ilissus.  But 
the  song  rose  gradually,  like  a  mountain  stream  when 
divine  rain  is  falling,  and  more  and  more  powerful, 
sweeter,  more  entrancing ;  it  filled  the  whole  air,  which 
now  quivered  voluptuously.  Athene's  mysterious  bird 
flew  in  silent  flight  from  the  direction  of  the  Acropolis, 
and  sat  motionless  on  a  column  near  by. 

Then  a  bare  arm  worthy  of  Phidias  or  Praxiteles,  whiter 
than  the  marble  of  Pentelicus,  pushed  the  curtain  aside. 
The  heart  in  the  Radiant  god  quivered  from  emotion. 

But  the  voice  of  Eriphyle  was  heard,  — 

"  What  wretched  fellow  is  that,  dragging  about  in  the 
night  and  thrumming.  It  is  not  enough  that  one  works 
to  weariness  in  the  day;  they  won't  let  us  sleep  at  night  1" 

"  Eriphyle  !  Eriphyle ! "  cried  the  Bearer  of  the  Silver- 
bow.  And  he  sang,  — 

"  From  Parnassus  of  lofty  peaks, 
Where,  in  light,  amid  azure, 
Inspired  muses  circle 
And  sing  inspired  songs  to  me, 
I,  divine,  adored  light, 
Have  descended.     Open  thy  arms, 
A  moment  on  thy  bosom,  Eriphyle, 
Will  to  me  be  eternity." 

"  By  the  sacred,  sacrificial  flour ! "  called  the  baker's 
wife,  "that  scapegrace  is  singing  to  me,  and  wants  to  turn 
my  head.  But  wilt  thou  not  go  home,  thou  torment!" 

Apollo,  wishing  to  convince  her  that  he  was  no  com- 
mon mortal,  shone  all  at  once  so  that  from  the  light  of 


THE   DECISION   OF  ZEUS.  167 

him  the  earth  and  the  air  became  radiant ;  but  Eriphyle 
seeing  that,  exclaimed,  — 

"  The  good-for-nothing  has  hidden  a  lantern  under  his 
skirt,  and  gives  himself  out  as  some  god !  0  daughter 
of  mighty  Zeus !  they  know  how  to  torment  us  with 
taxes,  but  keep  not  even  a  Scythian  guard  in  the  city  to 
take  giddy  heads  like  this  one  to  prison."  1 

Apollo  did  not  own  himself  beaten  yet,  and  sang  on, — 

"  Ah,  open  thy  white  arms ! 
I  will  give  endless  glory, 
Thy  name  shall  be  heard  through  the  world, 
Above  every  goddess  of  the  sky. 
Thou  shalt  have  immortality ; 
I  will  adorn  thee,  O  beautiful, 
Through  the  power  of  a  divine  word, 
So  that  no  Grecian  queen 
Will  have  the  like  homage. 

"  Ah,  open,  open  thy  arms  1 


I  will  rob  the  sea  of  its  azure, 

The  dawn  of  its  purple  and  gold, 

The  stars  of  their  sparks,  the  dew  of  its  flowers, 

And  of  this  brilliant  web 

I  will  make  for  my  only  one 

The  rainbow  robes  worn  by  Kypris." 

The  voice  of  the  god  of  poetry  sounded  so  marvellously 
that  it  called  forth  a  miracle.  There,  in  the  immortal 
night,  the  golden  spear  quivered  in  the  hands  of  Athene 
as  she  stood  on  the  Acropolis,  and  the  marble  head  of 
the  gigantic  statue  turned  somewhat  toward  the  lower 
city,  to  hear  the  words  of  the  song  more  distinctly. 
Heaven  and  earth  listened ;  the  sea  ceased  to  roar,  and 
lay  in  silence  at  its  shores ;  even  pale  Selene  (the  moon) 

1  Scythian  slaves  were  used  in  Athens  to  watch  over  the  order  and 
safety  of  the  city. 


168  THE   DECISION   OF   ZEUS. 

stopped  her  night  journey  through  the  sky,  and  halted 
over  Athens,  immovable. 

When  Apollo  ceased,  a  light  breeze  rose  and  bore  the 
song  through  all  Greece,  and  wherever  a  child  in  the 
cradle  heard  even  one  note  of  it,  that  child  became  a 
poet. 

But  before  Latona's  son  had  finished,  the  angry  Eriphyle 
screamed  loudly,  — 

"  What  a  fool !  He  wishes  to  traffic  here  in  stars  and 
dew.  Because  my  husband  is  not  at  home,  thou  thinkest 
that  everything  is  permitted.  Ei !  a  scandal  that  my 
servants  are  not  here,  I  would  teach  thee  sense !  But  I 
will  break  thee,  0  soap,  of  straggling  in  the  night  with 
thy  music ! " 

Then,  she  seized  a  kneading-bowl  with  acid  for  making 
yeast,  and  throwing  the  liquid  through  the  grating,  she 
covered  the  bright  face  of  Apollo,  his  radiant  shoulders, 
his  radiant  robe  and  lyre  with  it. 

Apollo  groaned,  and,  covering  his  inspired  head  with 
the  skirt  of  his  wet  robe  walked  away  abashed  and  angry. 

Hermes,  who  was  waiting  on  the  Pnyx,  seized  his  sides 
from  laughter,  stood  on  his  head,  and  brandished  his  staff 
with  delight.  But  when  the  suffering  son  of  Latona 
approached  him,  the  cunning  guardian  of  merchants 
feigned  sympathy,  and  said,— 

"  I  grieve  that  thou  has  lost,  0  Far-shooter." 

"  Be  off,  thou  rascal ! "  answered  Apollo,  in  anger. 

"  I  will  go  only  when  thou  givest  Lampetia." 

"  May  Cerberus  rend  thy  calves  !  I  will  not  give  Lam- 
petia ;  and  I  say,  be  off,  or  I  will  break  thy  staff  on  thy 
own  head ! " 

The  Slayer  of  Argus  knew  that  when  Apollo  was 
angry,  there  were  no  jokes  with  him,  so  he  pushed  aside, 
with  forethought,  and  said,  — 


THE   DECISION   OF  ZEUS.  169 

"  If  thou  wish  to  deceive  me,  be  Hermes  in  future,  and 
I  will  become  Apollo.  I  know  that  thou  art  more  power- 
ful than  I,  and  canst  do  me  wrong ;  but  happily  there  is 
one  above  thee,  and  he  will  judge  us.  I  summon  thee, 
Apollo,  to  the  court  of  the  son  of  Chronos !  Come  with 
me!" 

Apollo  was  frightened  at  mention  of  the  son  of 
Chronos  (Zeus) ;  he  dared  not  refuse,  and  they  went. 

Meanwhile,  it  had  begun  to  dawn.  Attica  was  emerg- 
ing from  the  shade.  Eosy-fingered  Aurora  had  appeared 
in  the  sky  in  the  direction  of  the  Archipelago. 

Zeus  had  passed  the  night  on  the  summit  of  Ida ;  but 
whether  he  had  slept,  or  had  not  slept,  or  what  he  was 
doing  there,  no  one  knew,  for.  the  Mist-gatherer  had 
sheltered  himself  with  a  cloud  so  dense  that  Hera  herself 
could  not  see  him. 

Hermes  trembled  a  little  as  he  drew  near  the  father  of 
gods  and  men. 

"  Justice  is  on  iny  side,"  thought  he ;  "  but  suppose 
Zeus  wakes  up  angry,  suppose  before  hearing  the  case 
that  he  takes  each  of  us  by  a  leg,  whirls  us  above  his 
head,  and  hurls  us  about  three  hundred  Athenian  stadia. 
He  has  some  regard  for  Apollo ;  but  with  me  he  will 
make  no  ceremony,  though  I  am  his  offspring." 

But  the  fears  of  Maia's  son  were  vain.  Zeus  was  sit- 
ting on  the  ground,  gladsome,  since  for  him  the  night  had 
passed  pleasantly ;  and  in  cheerful  glory  he  was  enjoy- 
ing the  circle  of  the  earth  with  gleaming  eyes.  The 
earth,  delighted  under  the  father  of  gods  and  men, 
produced  beneath  him  the  bright  grass  of  May,  and 
young  hyacinths.  He  leaned  on  his  arms,  passed  his 
fingers  over  the  curling  flowers,  and  rejoiced  in  his  lofty 
heart. 

When  he  saw  this,  the  son  of   Maia  recovered,  and, 


170  THE   DECISION   OF   ZEUS. 

giving  obeisance  to  his  parent,  began  boldly  to  inculpate 
Apollo ;  and  flakes  of  snow  fall  not  so  thickly  in  a  storin 
as  fell  the  eloquent  words  of  Hermes. 

When  he  had  finished,  Zeus  was  silent  for  a  while,  and 
then  spoke  to  Apollo. 

"  Is  all  this  true,  Eadiant  One  ? " 

"  True,  father,"  answered  Apollo,  "  but  if  thou  com- 
mand me  to  pay  the  wager,  after  the  shame  which  has 
met  me,  I  will  go  to  Hades,  and  give  light  to  the  shades 
there." 

Zeus  reflected  and  considered. 

"Then  this  woman,"  asked  he,  at  last,  "remained 
deaf  to  thy  music,  to  thy  song,  and  rejected  thee  with 
contempt  ? " 

"  She  poured  a  pot  of  yeast  on  my  head,  0  Wielder  of 
Thunderbolts ! " 

Zeus  frowned,  and  from  that  frown  Ida  trembled  im- 
mediately. Fragments  of  cliffs  rolled  to  the  sea  with 
tremendous  report,  and  forests  fell  like  stalks  of  grain 
broken  by  wind. 

Both  gods  were  frightened,  and  waited  with  throbbing 
hearts  for  the  sentence. 

"  Hermes,"  said  Zeus,  "  cheat  men  as  much  as  may  please 
thee,  for  men  like  to  be  cheated.  But  let  the  gods  alone, 
for  if  I  should  flash  up  in  anger  and  hurl  thee  into  the 
ether,  thou  wouldst  fall  and  sink  in  the  ocean  so  deeply 
that  even  my  brother,  Poseidon,  could  not  dig  thee  out 
with  his  trident." 

Divine  terror  seized  Hermes  by  the  smooth  knees ;  but 
Zeus  spoke  on,  with  an  ever-increasing  voice,  — 

"A  virtuous  woman,  especially  if  she  loves  another,  is 
able  to  resist  Apollo.  But  certainly  and  always  a  stupid 
woman  will  resist  him.  Eriphyle  is  stupid,  not  virtuous ; 
and  that  is  why  she  resisted  him.  In  this  thou  hast 


THE   DECISION   OF  ZEUS.  171 

cheated  the  Eadiant  —  and  thou  wilt  not  get  Lampetia, 
Now,  go  in  peace  ! " 

The  gods  departed. 

Zeus  sat  alone  in  joyful  glory  for  a  while.  He  looked 
in  silence  after  the  departing  Apollo,  and  muttered,  — 

"  Oh,  it  is  true,  a  stupid  woman  can  resist  him  ! "  And 
immediately  after,  since  he  had  not  rested  much,  he 
beckoned  to  Sleep,  who,  sitting  on  a  neighboring  tree  in 
the  form  of  a  sparrow-hawk,  was  awaiting  orders  from 
the  father  of  gods  and  men. 


ON  A  SINGLE   CARD. 

PERSONAGES. 


ON  A  SINGLE  CARD. 

PERSONAGES. 

PRINCE   STAROGRODSKI. 

STELLA,  his  daughter. 

YERZY  PRETVITS,  STELLA'S  betrothed. 

KAROL,   COUNT   DRAGOMIR,  a  friend  of  PRETVITS. 

COUNTESS   MILISHEVSKI. 

YAN,  COUNT  MILISHEVSKI. 

ANTONI  JUK,  Secretary  of  the  District   Council. 

DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH. 

PANI  CHESKI. 

PODCHASKI. 

SERVANT. 

ACT   I. 

The  stage  represents  a  drawing-room  with  the  main  door 
opening  on  a  garden.  In  the  side  walls  are  doors  to 
adjoining  chambers. 

SCENE  I. 

PRINCESS  STELLA,  PANI  CHESKI. 

PANI  CHESKI.  Why  tell  me  the  news  only  now  ?  In- 
deed, my  dear  Stella,  I  am  inclined  to  be  angry  at  thee. 
How  is  this  ?  I  live  one  verst  away ;  I  taught  thee  be- 
fore thou  wert  given  into  the  hands  of  French  and  Eng- 
lish governesses ;  I  see  thee  almost  daily ;  I  love  thee, 
little  girl,  with  my  whole  soul ;  and  for  weeks  thou  hast 
not  brought  thyself  to  say :  I  am  betrothed.  Do  not 
torment  me  longer,  at  least  now,  and  say  who  he  is. 


176  ON  A  SINGLE   CARD. 

STELLA.     Guess,  mother. 

PAN:  CHESKI.  Since  them  sayest  mother,  do  not  ask 
me  to  guess. 

STELLA.  But  I  wish  thee  to  guess,  to  say  :  "  Naturally 
it  is  he  and  no  other."  Thou  wilt  not  believe  how  that 
will  natter  me,  how  it  will  please  me. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Ah,  then  it  is  Count  Dragomir. 

STELLA.    Ah ! 

PANI  CHESKI.  Dost  thou  blush  ?  True,  he  has  not 
been  long  here ;  but  how  pleasant,  how  sympathetic,  how 
gladsome  he  is !  Oh,  my  old  eyes  see  clearly,  and  when 
I  looked  at  you  together,  I  thought  right  away  :  A  beau- 
tiful couple  !  perhaps  something  will  come  of  that. 

STELLA.  Nothing  will  come  of  it,  mother.  Count 
Dragomir  is  very  sympathetic  indeed,  but  my  betrothed 
is  Pan  Yerzy. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Pan  Yerzy  Pretvits  ? 

STELLA.     Yes.     Does  this  astonish  thee  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  No,  my  dear  child.  May  God  bless 
thee  ;  why  should  I  be  astonished  ?  Only  I  like  Count 
Dragomir  so  much  that  I  thought  him  the  man  —  Pan 
Yerzy  Pretvits  !  Oh,  not  in  the  least !  I  do  not  wonder 
at  all  that  he  fell  in  love  with  thee.  But  that  too  was 
rather  sudden.  How  long  hast  thou  known  him  ?  In  my 
Bervinko  I  hear  nothing  of  what  happens  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

STELLA.  Three  months.  My  betrothed  inherited  an 
estate  here  from  the  Yazlovetskis,  and  came,  as  thou 
knowest,  from  a  great  distance.  He  was  a  near  relative 
of  the  Yazlovetskis,  and  is  descended  himself  from  a  great 
family.  Thou,  beloved  lady,  hast  heard  of  the  Pretvitses  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  Nothing  and  nothing.  What  do  I  care 
for  heraldry  ! 

STELLA.     On  a  time,  but  whole  ages  ago,  the  Pretvitses 


ON  A   SINGLE  CARD.  177 

were  related  to  us.  That  family  is  very  famous.  Oh, 
otherwise  papa  would  not  have  consented.  Well,  Pan 
Pretvits  came  here,  received  the  estate  left  him  by  the 
Yazlovetskis,  became  acquainted  with  us  and  — 

PANI  CHESKI.  And  fell  in  love  with  thee.  In  his 
place  I  should  have  done  the  very  same.  That  raises  him 
in  my  eyes. 

STELLA.     But  did  he  need  it  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  No,  dear  kitten  —  be  at  rest.  People 
laugh  at  me,  I  assure  thee,  because  always  I  see  in  per- 
sons everything  that  is  best.  Of  a  nice  family,  young, 
rich,  genteel,  well-bred,  but  — 

STELLA.     But  what  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  Some  birds  have  sung  to  me,  for  even  I 
do  not  remember  who  told  me,  that  he  is  somewhat  like 
a  storm. 

STELLA.  His  life  was  like  a  storm,  but  that  high- 
hearted man  was  not  broken,  in  it. 

PANI  CHESKI.  All  the  better.  Listen,  my  child,  such 
men  are  the  best,  the  truest.  The  more  I  think  over  the 
matter,  the  more  sincerely  do  I  congratulate  thee. 

STELLA.  Thanks,  and  I  am  glad  that  I  have  been  out- 
spoken with  thee.  I  am  indeed  very  lonely  here.  Papa 
is  always  ailing ;  our  doctor  has  not  been  in  the  house  for 
three  months. 

PANI  CHESKI.     But  do  not  annoy  us  with  that  doctor. 

STELLA.     Thou  hast  never  liked  him. 

PANI  CHESKI.  Thou  knowest  that  I  am  not  prepos- 
sessed against  people ;  but  I  cannot  like  him. 

STELLA.  Dost  thou  know  that  they  have  offered  him 
a  chair  in  the  University,  and  that  he  is  striving  for 
election  to  the  diet?  Mother,  thou  art  unjust  indeed,  for 
he  simply  sacrifices  himself  for  us.  Such  a  famous  man, 
and  well-to-do,  and  learned,  still  he  stays  with  us,  though 

12 


178  ON  A  SINGLE   CARD. 

the  whole  world  is  open  to  him.  I  should  certainly  have 
asked  his  advice. 

PANI  CHESKI.  Love,  my  dear  Stella,  is  not  a  disease  — 
never  mind  the  doctor,  let  God  help  him.  Tell  me  better, 
kitten,  but  sincerely,  dost  thou  love  much  ? 

STELLA.  Seest  thou,  all  passed  suddenly.  True, 
Countess  Milishevski  came  also  with  her  sou.  I  saw 
that  I  was  in  question ;  and  I  was  afraid,  though  need- 
lessly, that  papa  might  be  on  their  side. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Thou  dost  not  answer  my  question  — 

STELLA.  How  speak  definitely.  Yerzy's  life,  mother, 
is  a  series  of  heroic  deeds,  sacrifices,  and  dangers.  Once 
he  was  near  death,  and  would  not  be  living  to-day  had  it 
not  not  been  that  Count  Dragomir  saved  him.  How  he 
loves  the  Count  for  that  act !  Distant  deserts,  loneliness, 
continuous  suffering  are  evident  on  my  betrothed.  But 
when  his  life  is  unfolded  before  me,  it  seems,  indeed, 
that  I  love  that  iron  man  greatly.  If  thou  knew  how 
timidly,  and  still  how  lovingly  he  declared  what  he  feels 
for  me,  and  added  afterward  that  he  knew  that  his  hands 
were  too  rough  — 

PANI  CHESKI.  Not  too  rough,  because  honest.  After 
what  thou  hast  said,  I  give  all  my  soul  to  him. 

STELLA.  But  still,  mother,  in  spite  of  all  this,  I  feel 
at  times  very  unhappy. 

PANI  CHESKI.     And  how  is  that,  Stella  ?    Why  ? 

STELLA.  Because  at  times  we  are  unable  to  under- 
stand each  other.  Feelings,  mother,  are  of  two  classes : 
one  as  firm  and  immovable  as  cliffs,  the  other  like  streams 
which  are  transparent.  Now  when  I  examine  Yerzy's 
feelings,  I  see  their  greatness  and  unshaken  character; 
but  my  soul  is  not  reflected  in  them  as  a  face  in  a  clear 
river.  I  love  him,  that  is  true ;  but  at  moments  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  could  love  him  more,  that  I  do  not  put  all 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  179 

the  strength  of  my  heart  into  this  attachment,  and  then 
I  feel  unhappy. 

PANI  CHESKI.  I  can  hardly  understand  thy  words,  I 
take  life  simply  :  I  love,  or  not.  Ei !  Stella  dear,  the 
world  is  so  wisely  arranged,  and  God  is  so  good,  that 
nothing  is  simpler  than  happiness.  But  one  must  not 
confuse  God's  affairs.  Be  calm,  child !  Thou  art  in  love 
terribly.  What  is  the  use  in  talking  ! 

STELLA.  Oh,  I  need  just  thy  confidence  in  the  future, 
thy  optimism.  I  knew  that  thou,  dear  sincerity,  would 
frown,  and  say,  "  What  is  the  use  in  talking."  Eight 
away  I  am  brighter  and  more  joyous.  Only  I  am  a  little 
afraid  of  our  doctor.  But  what  is  this  ?  (Looking  through 
the  window.)  Our  gentlemen :  Pan  Yerzy  and  Count 
Dragomir. 

PANI  CHESKI  (looking  through  the  window).  Thy  be- 
trothed looks  nicely ;  but  so  does  Count  Dragomir.  Has 
he  been  visiting  Yerzy  long  ? 

STELLA  (looking  through  the  window).  Two  weeks.  Pan 
Yerzy  invited  him  purposely.  They  are  coming  now. 

PANI  CHESKI.  And  the  little  heart  is  going,  puk ! 
puk! 

STELLA.     Oh,  be  not  my  enemy,  evil  woman  ! 


SCENE  II. 

PANI  CHESKI,  STELLA,  YERZY,  COUNT  DRAGOMIR.    DRAG- 
OMIR has  his  left  arm  in  a  sling. 

SERVANT  (opening  the  door).  The  Princess  is  in  the 
drawing-room. 

STELLA  (greeting).  Are  you  not  somewhat  late  to-day, 
Pan  Yerzy. 

YERZY.     Yes,  the  sun  is  just  setting.     But  we  could 


180  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

not  come  earlier.  Do  you  know  that  there  was  a  fire  in 
the  neighboring  village  ?  We  went  to  it. 

PANI  CHESKI.  We  have  heard  of  it.  I  suppose  a 
number  of  houses  were  burned. 

YERZY.  The  fire  broke  out  in  the  morning,  and  has 
been  quenched  just  now.  About  twenty  families  are 
without  a  roof  and  without  bread.  We  are  late  also, 
because  the  Count  had  an  accident. 

STELLA  (with  animation).  True !  His  arm  is  in  a 
sling. 

DRAGOMIR.  Nothing  serious.  If  there  were  no  worse 
wounds  in  the  world,  courage  would  be  sold  on  all 
market  squares.  A  slight  scratch  — 

STELLA.     How  did  he  get  it,  Pan  Yerzy  ? 

YERZY.  I  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  street  at  the 
time,  and  I  could  see  nothing  through  the  smoke.  They 
told  me  simply  that  Karol  had  rushed  into  a  burning 
house  — 

STELLA.     O  my  God  I 

DRAGOMIR  (laughing}.  I  think  that  my  deed  gains 
by  distance. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Well,  let  the  gentleman  tell  it  himself. 

DRAGOMIR.  People  shouted  before  me  that  in  a  house, 
the  roof  of  which  had  just  begun  to  burn,  was  a  woman. 
Then,  judging  that  that  female  salamander,  fearless  of 
fire,  was  some  enchanted  beauty,  perhaps,  I  went  in 
through  pure  curiosity.  It  was  a  little  dark  there  from 
smoke.  I  looked,  and  convinced  myself  firmly  that  I 
have  no  luck  in  anything ;  for  my  salamander  was  only 
an  old  Jewess  who  was  packing  broken  feathers  into  a 
bag.  Amid  flakes  of  goose-down  she  looked  like  whatever 
may  please  you;  but  not  like  an  enchantress.  I  screamed 
that  the  house  was  burning ;  she,  in  the  darkness,  took 
me  evidently  for  a  thief,  and  screamed  also,  or  —  we  both 


ON   A  SINGLE   CARD.  181 

screamed.  At  last,  seeing  that  there  was  no  help,  I 
seized  the  salamander  in  my  arms,  and  bore  her  out, 
fainting  from  fear,  not  by  the  window  even,  but  by  the 
door. 

YERZY.  But  thou  hast  not  added  that  the  roof  fell  in 
and  a  rafter  struck  thy  arm. 

DRAGOMIR.  If  that  is  the  way,  I  will  break  the  bonds 
of  modesty  and  add,  that  the  mayor  made  a  speech  to 
me.  He  said  something,  I  think,  about  a  monument 
which  they  are  to  raise  in  the  square  to  me.  But,  believe 
me,  Yerzy  and  his  men  put  the  fire  out.  I  think  that 
the  village  ought  to  raise  two  monuments. 

PANI  CHESKI.  I  know  that  one  of  you  is  worthy  of 
the  other. 

STELLA.  God  be  praised  that  nothing  worse  has  met 
you,  Count. 

DRAGOMIR.  Something  very  good  has  met  me,  your 
sympathy. 

PANI  CHESKI.  And  you  have  mine  too ;  as  to  Pan 
Yerzy,  I  have  a  question  with  him. 

YERZY.     Touching  what,  dear  lady  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  Ei,  Pan  Yerzy,  Pan  Yerzy  !  (To  Stella 
and  DRAGOMIR.)  Go  you  to  the  Prince,  and  we  will 
have  a  little  talk  here. 

STELLA.  Ah,  mother,  thou,  I  see,  hast  the  wish  to  turn 
Pan  Yerzy's  head. 

PANI  CHESKI.  Quiet,  thou  rogue  !  I  am  just  the  one 
to  vie  with  thee.  But  know,  my  dear,  that  every  autumn 
had  its  spring.  Well,  go  ! 

STELLA  (to  DRAGOMIR).  Let  us  go.  Papa  is  in  the 
garden,  and  I  fear  that  he  is  worse  again.  A  pity  that 
the  doctor  is  not  here. 


182  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

SCENE  III. 
PANI  CHESKI,  YERZY,  and,  later,  STELLA. 

PANI  CHESKI.  I  ought  to  scold  you,  Pan  Yerzy,  as  I 
scolded  my  young  lady,  for  secrecy.  But  Stella  has  told 
me  everything,  so  I  only  say  :  God  bless  you  both  ! 

YERZY  (kissing  Tier  hand}.     Thank  you. 

PANI  CHESKI.  I  reared  that  child  from  being  the 
smallest  little  mite ;  I  was  ten  years  with  her,  so  I  know 
what  a  treasure  you  are  getting.  You  told  her  that  your 
hands  were  too  rough.  I  answered  her  at  once :  "  Not  too 
rough,  because  they  are  honest."  But  Stella  is  a  very 
delicate  flower ;  there  is  need  to  love  her  much,  and  to 
guard  her.  You  will  be  able  to  do  that,  —  will  you  not  ? 

YERZY.  What  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  As  far  as  it  is  in 
human  power  to  give  happiness  to  that  being  who  for  me 
is  sacred,  I  wish  to  give  it. 

PANI  CHESKI.     With  all  my  soul  I  say  :  God  bless  you ! 

YERZY.  The  Princess  looks  on  you  as  a  mother,  hence 
I  will  talk  as  frankly  as  with  a  mother.  My  life  has 
been  very  difficult.  At  one  moment  it  hung  on  a  thread. 
I  was  saved  then  by  Count  Dragomir,  whom  I  love  and 
esteem  as  a  brother ;  but  later  on — 

PANI  CHESKI.  Stella  told  me.  You  were  living  far 
away — 

YERZY.  I  was  among  empty  steppes,  half  wild,  among 
strangers,  so  very  lonely  and  yearning  for  my  country, 
and  the  last  member  of  a  noble  family.  Besides  a  proud 
soul,  though  struck  by  misfortune,  as  by  a  hammer,  is 
ashamed  to  groan,  and  shuts  pain  within  itself,  and  great 
torture  comes  through  this.  Indeed,  at  times,  there  was 
not  a  living  being  near  me. 

PANI   CHESKI.     God  was  above  the  stars,  Pan  Yerzy. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  183 

YERZY.  Oh  !  that  is  another  thing.  But  the  heart 
cast  on  earth  must  love  some  one  on  earth  and  have 
some  person  near  it.  So  with  all  that  need  of  loving,  I 
prayed  God  to  let  me  love  some  person.  He  heard  me 
and  gave  her.  Do  you  understand  now  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.     Oh,  I  understand ! 

YERZY.  How  soon  all  changed  after  that !  I  inherited 
an  estate  here,  and  returned ;  then  I  became  acquainted 
with  the  Princess,  and  now  I  love  her  as  the  accomplish- 
ment of  my  prayer,  as  the  reward  for  my  suffering,  as  my 
heartfelt  everything  on  earth.  Oh,  be  at  rest,  Pani ! 

PANI  CHESKI.  Indeed  I  will.  My  honest  Pan  Yerzy, 
be  of  good  cheer,  you  are  worthy  of  Stella,  and  with  you 
she  will  be  happy.  My  golden,  my  beloved  Stella  ! 

STELLA  (appearing  in  the  garden  door,  and  clapping  her 
hands).  Perfect  news  !  Perfect  news  !  The  doctor  will 
come  in  a  moment ;  he  is  in  the  village.  Papa  is  already 
calmer  and  in  better  humor. 

PANI  CHESKI.  But  do  not  flutter  about,  do  not  run 
too  fast,  and  grow  red  from  over-exertion.  Where  is  the 
Prince  ? 

STELLA.  In  the  garden,  he  is  drinking  coffee.  He 
invites  you  to  come. 

YERZY.    We  will  go. 

STELLA  (goes  in  advance,  and  then  halts).  But,  I  beg 
you  not  to  tell  the  doctor  what  has  happened  between  us 
— I  wish  to  tell  him  first.  I  have  begged  papa  already 
to  keep  the  secret.  [They  go  out. 

SCENE  IV. 

DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH  enters  through  the  principal  door. 
DOCTOR  (to  SERVANT).     Yan  !  take  my  things  upstairs, 
the  package  which  I  left  at  the  entrance  send  by  a  mes- 
senger to  Pan  Antoni,  the  secretary  of  the  district  council 


184  ON  A  SINGLE   CARD. 

SERVANT  (bowing}.     I  obey,  Pan  Doctor !         [Goes  out. 

DOCTOR  (coming  to  the  front  of  the  stage).  At  last ! 
after  three  months  of  absence.  How  quiet  and  calm 
everything  is  here !  After  a  while  I  will  greet  them  as 
the  future  member.  I  have  thrown  six  years  into  this 
abyss  between  us,  —  iron  labor,  sleepless  nights,  science, 
reputation,  and  now  —  let  us  see  !  (He  approaches  the  door 
to  the  garden.)  Here  they  are;  she  has  not  changed 
any. 

SCENE  V. 

Through  the  garden  door  enters  STELLA,  PANI  CHESKI,  at 
their  side  YERZY,  behind,  DRAGOMIR,  on  the  arm  of 
PRINCE  STAROGRODSKI. 

STELLA.  Oh,  our  doctor !  our  beloved  doctor !  How  are 
you,  Pan  Stanislav  ?  We  had  grown  weary  waiting  for 
you. 

PANI  CHESKI  (inclining  coldly).     Especially  the  Prince. 

DOCTOR  (kissing  STELLA'S  hand).  Good-evening,  Prin- 
cess !  And  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  return.  I  have  come  for 
a  longer  time  to  rest  a  little.  And  the  Prince,  how  is  he, 
in  health  ? 

PRINCE  (embracing  him).  Dear  boy!  Weak,  weak! 
Thou  hast  acted  perfectly  in  coming.  Thou  wilt  see  at 
once  how  I  am. 

DOCTOR.  Now,  Prince,  perhaps  you  will  have  the 
kindness  to  present  me  to  the  rest  of  the  society. 

PRINCE.  Ah,  of  course  ?  Doctor  Yozvovich,  my  min- 
ister of  the  interior  —  I  said  well,  did  I  not?  for  thou  art 
occupied  with  my  health,  Count  Karol  Dragomir. 

DRAGOMIR.  Your  name  is  at  present  strange  to  no  one, 
hence,  properly,  I  should  be  presented. 

PRINCE  (presenting).     Pan  Yerzy  Pretvits,  our  neighbor, 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  185 

and —  (STELLA  makes  a  sign  to  her  father^)  and  this  —  I 
wish  to  say,  and  this  — 

YERZY.  I,  if  I  mistake  not,  am  a  comrade  of  your 
school  days. 

DOCTOR.     I  did  not  wish  to  mention  it  first. 

YERZY.  I  greet  a  former  comrade  heartily.  The  time 
is  long  passed,  but  we  lived  intimately.  Indeed  I  am 
delighted,  sincerely,  especially  after  what  I  have  heard  of 
you. 

DRAGOMIR.     As  of  the  good  spirit  of  this  house. 

STELLA.     Oh,  that  is  true  ! 

PRINCE.     Wait,  let  me  tell  what  I  have  to  say  of  him. 

YERZY.  How  many  times  did  the  first  scholar,  Yoz- 
vbvski,  solve  problems  for  Pretvits. 

DOCTOR.     You  have  a  rare  memory. 

YERZY.  Yes,  comrade,  for  I  remember  also  that  in 
those  days  we  did-  not  say  "  Pan  "  to  each  other.  So  now 
again  I  greet  thee  heartily,  Stanislav. 

DOCTOR.     The  heartiness  is  mutual. 

YEKZY.  But  I  remember  that  after  finishing  the  course, 
thou  didst  study  law. 

DOCTOR.     Later,  I  became  a  doctor  of  medicine. 

PRINCE.  Well,  sit  down.  Or  will  you  stand  ?  Yau, 
here  !  a  light ! 

STELLA.  How  pleasant  it  is  that  you  gentlemen  are 
acquainted ! 

DOCTOR.  The  school  bench,  like  misery,  unites  people. 
But  afterward  society  divides  them.  Yerzy  had  a  bril- 
liant position  secured ;  I  had  to  find  mine. 

PRINCE.     He  found  his,  but  in  blows. 

DRAGOMIR.     In  two  parts  of  the  world. 

PANI  CHESKI.     That  was  really  manful. 

DOCTOR.  Ha,  he  followed  his  instinct !  While  in 
school  he  rode,  shot,  wielded  the  sword. 


186  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

YEKZY.     Better  than  he  learned  ? 

DOCTOR  (laughing).  Yes  !  We  called  him  the  hetman, 
for  he  led  us  in  our  student  wars. 

DEAGOMIR.     Yerzy,  I  recognize  thee. 

PANI  CHESKI.  But  now  I  think  that  he  will  stop 
warring. 

STELLA.     Who  knows  ? 

YERZY.     Beyond  doubt  he  will. 

DOCTOR.  As  for  me,  I  was  the  worst  among  those  in 
the  ranks ;  I  never  had  a  taste  for  such  amusements. 

PRINCE.  For  those  are  the  amusements  of  nobles,  not 
of  doctors. 

DOCTOR  (laughing).  We  are  beginning  to  quarrel 
already  !  Prince,  you  are  proud  that  your  forefathers, 
who  were  knights,  killed  crowds  of  people.  If  you  will 
learn  how  many  I  have  killed  with  my  medicines,  I  will 
guarantee  that  no  ancestor  of  your  princely  race  can  boast 
of  such  numbers. 

DRAGOMIR.     Bravo,  that  is  perfect ! 

PRINCE.  What  does  this  worthless  man  say  ?  And  he 
is  my  doctor ! 

STELLA.     Papa,  the  doctor  is  joking. 

PRINCE.  I  thank  him  for  such  jokes.  But  the  world 
is  going  topsy-turvy,  that  is  undoubted. 

DOCTOR.  And,  Prince,  we  shall  live  a  hundred  years 
yet.  (To  YERZY.)  Come,  tell  me  thy  adventures.  Those 
present  know  thy  life;  but  for  me  it  is  new.  (They  go 
toward  the  window.) 

PRINCE.  You  cannot  believe  how  unhappy  I  am  not  to 
be  rid  of  this  worthless  fellow.  He  is  the  son  of  a  black- 
smith from  Stanislavov.  I  sent  him  to  school,  for  I 
wished  to  employ  him,  and  then  he  went  himself  to  the 
University. 

DRAGOMIR.  And  is  a  doctor  of  law  and  of  medicine. 
A  clever  man,  that  is  evident. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  187 

STELLA.     Oh,  such  a  clever  one  ! 

PANI  CHESKI.     So  wise  that  I  am  afraid  of  him. 

DEAGOMIR.     But  the  Prince  must  be  glad  ? 

PRINCE.  Glad,  glad  !  People  have  turned  his  head  ; 
they  have  made  of  him  some  kind  of  democrat  or  sans 
culotte.  But  he  is  a  good  doctor,  and  I  am  weak.  I  lack 
juices  in  the  stomach.  (To  DRAGOMIR.)  Do  you  know 
this? 

DRAGOMIR.     Your  complaint  is  an  old  one  — 

PANI  CHESKI.     Twenty  years. 

PRINCE.  My  Cheski !  Sorrow  and  public  service  have 
taken  my  health  away. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Pshaw  !  the  Prince  is  well. 

PRINCE  (angrily}.  I  say  that  I  am  ill.  Stella,  dear,  I 
am  ill,  am  I  not  ? 

STELLA.     Now,  papa,  you  will  be  better  right  away. 

PRINCE.  He  alone  keeps  me  on  my  feet.  Stella  also 
would  die  of  heart  affection  were  it  not  for  him. 

DRAGOMIR.     If  that  be  true,  he  is  a  man  beyond  price. 

STELLA.     Oh,  we  owe  him  eternal  gratitude. 

PRINCE  (looking  at  YERZY).  Pretvits  will  need  him. 
What  thinkest  thou,  Stella,  will  he  need  him  ? 

STELLA  (laughing').     How  am  I  to  know,  papa  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  Indeed,  more  than  once  I  envy  those  iron 
men  who  take  the  world  by  storm.  In  this  battle  they 
develop  strength  in  themselves ;  our  strength  fades  and 
vanishes,  for  nothing  ever  rouses  it.  We  may  be  of  suffi- 
ciently noble  metal,  but  rust  weakens  us  ;  they  strengthen 
themselves  in  life.  That  is  a  sad  necessity. 

PANI  CHESKI.     But,  Pan  Yerzy  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  Yerzy,  also,  has  passed  through  much. 
But  there  is  a  difference  between  them,  which  is  felt, 
though  to  define  it  is  difficult.  Look,  gentlemen,  at  those 
two  men.  When  the  storm  blows,  Yerzy  resists  like  a 


188  ON  A   SINGLE  CARD. 

tree  of  a  hundred  years'  growth ;  but  a  man  like  the  doctor 
controls  the  wind  and  commands  it  to  push  on  his  boat. 
There  is  in  him  a  certain  greater  capacity  for  life.  Hence 
the  result  is  easily  foreseen.  The  older  the  tree,  though 
strong,  the  more  it  is  pulled  by  storms,  the  earlier  must 
it  wither. 

PRINCE.  More  than  once  I  have  said  that  we  are 
withering  like  old  trees.  Some  other  kind  of  brush  is 
growing;  it  is  nothing  but  a  thicket  though.  I  have 
dried  up  and  withered  already  three  fingers'  length  at 
least. 

STELLA.  Whoever  is  good  has  a  right  to  life,  therefore 
we  should  not  doubt  ourselves. 

DRAGOMIR.  Hence  I  do  not  doubt,  even  because  of 
what  the  poet  says :  "  He  is  a  saint  on  earth  who  has 
been  able  to  gain  the  friendship  of  saints."  (Bowing  to 
STELLA.) 

STELLA  (threatening).  If  he  has  not  gained  this  friend- 
ship through  flattery. 

DRAGOMIR.     Only  let  me  not  envy  the  doctor. 

STELLA.  Friendship  is  not  exclusive,  even  if  I  look  on 
the  doctor  as  a  brother. 

PRINCE.  What  art  thou  chattering,  Stella  ?  He  is  as 
much  a  brother  of  thine  as  I  am  a  radical.  I  cannot 
endure  the  man,  though  I  cannot  dispense  with  him. 

PANI  CHESKI.    How,  Prince,  whom  can  you  not  endure  ? 

DRAGOMIR  (laughing}.     And  why  ? 

PRINCE.  Why  ?  Have  I  not  told  you  ?  He  does  what 
he  likes  with  us,  disposes  of  the  whole  house  as  he  wishes. 
Believes  in  nothing,  except  in  some,  there  —  what  is  it, 
Stella  —  what  ?  And  besides,  he  is  as  ambitious  as  Satan. 
He  is  a  professor  of  the  Academy  already,  like  some 
spiritual  person,  and,  moreover,  is  trying  to  be  elected  to 
the  diet.  Have  you  heard  ?  He  will  be  a  deputy,  then 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  189 

serene,  great,  mighty !  But  I  should  not  be  Starogrodski, 
if  I  permitted  that.  (Aloud.*)  Yozvovich  ! 

DOCTOR  (under  the  window).  What  do  you  command, 
Prince  ? 

PRINCE.    Is  it  true  that  thou  art  canvassing  for  election  ? 

DOCTOR.     At  your  service,  Prince. 

PRINCE.  Pani  Cheski,  have  you  heard  ?  Is  not  the 
world  topsy-turvy  ?  Yozvovich  ! 

DOCTOR.     What,  Prince  ? 

PRINCE.     And  perhaps  thou  wilt  become  a  minister  ? 

DOCTOR.     Perhaps. 

PRINCE.  You  have  heard  ?  And  perhaps  thou  thinkest 
that  I  shall  say  of  thee  His  Excellency  ? 

DOCTOR.  It  would  fall  out  so;  every  station  has  its 
honor. 

PRINCE.  I  take  the  company  to  witness.  Yozvovich, 
dost  wish  that  my  bile  should  overflow  ? 

DOCTOR.  Let  the  Prince  be  at  rest.  My  Excellency 
will  always  look  after  his  Serene  bile. 

PRINCE.  True.  Irritation  injures  me.  Does  it  not, 
Yozvovich,  injure  me  ? 

DOCTOR.  Injures  as  to  bile,  but  gives  appetite.  (He 
and  YERZY  approach  the  speakers.) 

STELLA.     Of  what  were  you  talking,  gentlemen  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  was  listening  to  Yerzy's  narratives.  Won- 
derful, terrible  things  !  Yerzy  made  a  mistake  ;  he  should 
have  come  to  the  world  two  hundred  years  earlier.  It 
is  bad  for  Bayards  at  present. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Providence  is  above  all  men. 

DRAGOMIR.     I  believe  in  that  also. 

DOCTOR.  If  I  were  a  mathematician,  without  contra- 
dicting you,  I  should  simply  say  that  since  in  many  cases 
the  value  of  X  is  unknown,  it  is  necessary  to  help  one's 
self. 


190  ON  A  SINGLE  CAKD. 

PKINCE.  What  is  he  saying  ? 

STELLA.  Oh,  dear  doctor,  I  beg  you  not  to  talk  so 

sceptically,  for  you  will  have  war,  not  with  papa,  but 
with  me. 

DOCTOR.  My  scepticism  ends  where  your  words  be- 
gin —  so  I  yield  unconditionally. 

STELLA..  What  a  polite  deputy  1 


SCENE  VI. 
The  above  and  a  servant. 

SERVANT.     Tea  is  on  the  table  ! 

YERZY.  I  must  take  leave  of  you,  Prince,  and,  you 
Princess. 

STELLA.  How  is  this  ?  So  far  we  have  always  had 
to  be  the  first  to  say :  "  It  is  late,"  but  now  you  leave  us 
so  early. 

DOCTOR  (aside).  My  old  comrade  is  on  an  intimate 
footing  here. 

YERZY.  Pardon  me.  It  is  pleasanter  here  than  ever ; 
but  to-day  I  must  be  at  home  without  fail.  Besides  I 
leave  Dragomir  to  take  my  place. 

STELLA.  To  grow  angry  would  be  to  fix  conceit  in 
you  ;  still  I  beg  an  explanation. 

YERZY.  The  people  who  were  burnt  out  are  at  my 
house.  I  must  arrange  to  give  them  food  and  a  sleeping 
place. 

PANI  CHESKI  (aside).  He  knows  how  to  renounce 
pleasure  for  duty.  (Aloud.)  Stella ! 

STELLA.     I  listen,  mother. 

PANI  CHESKI.  To-morrow  we  will  occupy  ourselves 
with  a  collection  and  take  them  some  clothing. 

DOCTOR.     And  I  will  go  with  you.     This  will  be  the 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  191 

first  case  when  not  misery  seeks  the  doctor,  but  the 
doctor  misery. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Perfect ! 

PRINCE  {striking  with  his  cane).     Pretvits ! 

YERZY.     What  do  you  command,  Prince  ? 

PRINCE.  You  say  that  those  poor  people  are  in  terrible 
need? 

YERZY.     Very  terrible  need. 

PRINCE.     Do  you  say  that  they  will  die  of  hunger  ? 

YERZY.     Almost,  Prince. 

PRINCE.  Justice  to  them.  God  is  punishing  them  for 
choosing  such  deputies  as  this.  (Pointing  to  the  DOCTOR.) 

DOCTOR  (with  a  bow.)     They  have  not  chosen  me  yet. 

STELLA.     Papa ! 

PRINCE.  Stella,  what  did  I  want  to  say  ?  Aha  !  Pret- 
vits ! 

YERZY.     I  hear,  Prince. 

PRINCE.  Didst  thou  say  that  they  would  die  of 
hunger  ? 

YERZY.     I  said,  almost 

PRINCE.  Well !  Go  to  the  cashier  Florkevich  ;  tell  him 
to  give  a  thousand  florins  for  those  needy  people  (strikes 
with  his  cane).  Let  them  know  that  I  will  not  allow 
any  man  to  die  of  hunger  where  I  am. 

STELLA.     Dear,  beloved  father ! 

DRAGOMIR.     I  knew  that  it  would  end  that  way. 

DOCTOR.     This  is  in  true  princely  fashion. 

PRINCE.  And  so,  Pan  Yozvovich,  Noblesse  oblige.  Does 
His  Excellency  understand,  Pan  Yozvovich? 

DOCTOR.     I  understand,  Serene  Prince. 

PRINCE  (giving  his  arm  to  PANI  CHESKI).  And  now  let 
us  go  to  tea.  [YERZY  takes  farewell,  and  departs. 

DOCTOR.  I  must  take  leave  too.  I  am  tired,  and  be- 
sides I  must  write  letters. 


192  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

PRINCE.  As  God  lives,  one  might  think  that  he  was 
a  minister  already.  But  come  later  to  see  me,  for  with- 
out thee  I  shall  not  go  to  sleep. 

DOCTOR.     I  shall  come,  Prince. 

PRINCE  (muttering).  A  man  is  immediately  healthier 
and  gladder  the  moment  that  Robespierre  comes. 

STELLA.  Pan  Stanislav,  wait  a  moment.  I  do  not 
drink  tea,  so  I  will  only  seat  papa,  and  return  at  once,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you. 

DOCTOR.     At  your  service,  Princess. 

SCENE  VII. 
DOCTOR,  alone,  then,  STELLA. 

DOCTOR.  What  are  those  men  doing  here,  and  what 
does  she  want  to  tell  me  ?  Can  it  be  ?  But  no !  That 
is  impossible.  I  am  somehow  disquieted,  but  still  all 
will  be  explained  soon.  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am !  She 
wishes  simply  to  tell  me  what  she  knows  of  the  Prince's 
health.  This  moonlight  evening  so  acts  on  me  that  I 
would  just  take  a  guitar  in  my  hand. 

STELLA  (entering).     Pan  Stanislav. 

DOCTOR.     I  am  here,  Princess. 

STELLA.  I  tried  not  to  keep  you  waiting  long.  I  will 
sit  here  near  you,  and  we  will  talk;  as- we  talked  long  ago, 
when  I  was  small  and  weak,  and  you  cured  me.  I  re- 
member that  more  than  once  I  fell  asleep,  and  you  car- 
ried me,  sleeping,  in  your  arms. 

DOCTOR.  The  pet  of  the  whole  house  was  very  weak 
in  those  days. 

STELLA.  If  I  am  healthy  at  present,  it  is  owing  only 
to  you ;  I  am  a  plant  reared  by  your  hand. 

DOCTOR.      And    therefore    my     merit     and    greatest 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  193 

praise.  In  the  life  which  I  have  passed  there  were 
few  calm,  warm  moments,  and  I  found  peace  only  in 
this  house. 

STELLA.  You  were  always  uniformly  kind,  and  I 
consider  you  an  elder  brother.  You  are  not  angry  over 
this? 

DOCTOR.  Such  words  of  yours  are  the  only  smile  of 
my  life.  Not  merely  do  I  honor  you,  but  I  love  you  very 
deeply  —  as  a  sister,  as  my  own  child. 

STELLA.  I  thank  you.  In  no  one's  reason  and  justice 
have  I  so  much  confidence  as  in  yours,  therefore  I  have 
wished  to  speak  of  important  things.  I  hope  even  that 
what  I  say  will  give  you  pleasure,  as  it  does  me,  because 
you  rise  more  and  more  above  common  people..  Is  it 
certain  that  you  are  to  be  a  deputy  ? 

DOCTOR  (unquietly).  That  is  only  probable.  But 
speak  of  that  which  relates  to  yourself. 

STELLA.  0  my  God !  But  you  will  not  leave  papa, 
will  you  ? 

DOCTOR  (with  a  deep  breath  of  relief).  You  wish  to 
speak  of  the  Prince's  health. 

STELLA.  I  know  that  papa  is  better  now.  Indeed,  I 
did  not  think  that  this  was  so  difficult.  I  am  a  little 
afraid  of  your  harsh  judgments  on  people. 

DOCTOR  (with  forced  calmness).  But  do  not  torture 
my  curiosity. 

STELLA.  Then  I  will  close  my  eyes  and  tell,  though 
this  is  not  easy  for  any  young  lady.  Have  you  known 
Pan  Yerzy  a  long  time  ? 

DOCTOR  (still  more  uneasily).     I  know  him,  Princess. 

STELLA.     How  does  he  please  you  ? 

DOCTOR.     Of  what  use  is  my  opinion  to  you  ? 

STELLA.     He  —  he  is  my  betrothed. 

DOCTOR  (rising).     Betrothed ! 

13 


194  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

STELLA.  My  God !  Then  my  choice  does  not  please 
you  ?  (A  moment  of  silence.)  Pan  Stanislav  — 

DOCTOK.  A  moment  only  —  a  moment.  Your  choice, 
if  it  came  from  the  heart  and  will,  must  be  good.  But 
for  me  this  news  was  unexpected,  so  I  received  it  with 
too  much  interest  perhaps.  But  I  could  not  take  it  in- 
differently, through  good-will  for  your  house.  For  that 
matter,  my  opinion  here  means  nothing.  I  wish  you 
happiness,  and  desire  your  happiness,  Princess.  I  wish 
your  happiness  with  all  my  heart. 

STELLA.     I  shall  be  calmer  now.     Thank  you. 

DOCTOK.  Eeturn  to  your  father.  The  happiness  which 
has  fallen  on  your  house  has  taken  me  a  little  off  my 
feet,  for  it  fell  unexpectedly.  I  need  to  recover.  I  need 
to  accustom  myself  to  the  thought.  In  every  case  I 
congratulate  you  on  the  choice.  Eeturn  to  your  father. 

STELLA.  Good-night !  (She  halts  in  the  door  a  mo- 
ment, looks  at  the  DOCTOK  and  goes  out. ) 

SCENE  VIII. 

DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  alone. 
DOCTOR.     Too  late,  too  late ! 

(The  curtain  falls.') 

END    OF   FIRST   ACT. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  195 

ACT    II. 

The  same  drawing-room. 

SCENE  I. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH  and  ANTOXI  JUK. 

DOCTOR.  Antoni,  come  this  way  !  Here  we  can  talk 
freely.  They  are  renovating  my  rooms.  What  do  you 
bring  from  the  city  ? 

ANTONI.     Good   news.     In  an  hour  a  deputation    of 

electors  will  come.     You  must  say  something  to  them 

—  you  understand? —  Something  about  enlightenment, 

roads,  bridges,  unjust  taxes  on  salt  and  grinding.     But  for 

that  matter,  you  know  this  better  than  I  do. 

DOCTOR.     I  know,  I  know  ;  and  how  is  my  programme  ? 

ANTONI.  An  immense  impression.  The  thing  was 
written  with  coolness,  dignity,  and  scientific  accuracy. 
Though  the  figures  strike  the  eye,  they  are  unanswerable. 
The  conservative  journals  are  in  a  rage,  all  the  more  that 
nothing  is  left  them  to  do  but  spit. 

DOCTOR.     That  is  well.     What  further  ? 

ANTONI.  Three  days  ago  you  were  tottering  in  the 
suburbs ;  but  I  discovered  this,  assembled  the  electors,  and 
fired  off  a  little  speech.  '  Citizens,'  said  I,  in  conclusion, 
'  for  all  your  troubles  and  those  of  society,  I  know  only 
one  cure :  It  is  called  Yozvovich  !  Long  life  to  progress  ! ' 
I  lashed  the  conservatives  also  a  little,  but  moderately. 
1  called  them  belly-feeders. 

DOCTOR.  It  is  impossible  to  say  how  moderate  that 
was  on  thy  part.  Thou  art  a  practical  man,  Antoni. 
There  is  hope  then  of  victory  ? 

ANTONI.  Almost  a  certainty  of  it.  But  whether  we 
win  now  or  not,  the  future  is  before  us.  And  do  you 


196  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

know  why  ?  Because  avoiding  all  election  outbursts,  we, 
meeting  here  two  of  us,  and  speaking  of  our  affairs,  need 
not  break  into  laughter  before  each  other,  like  Eoman 
augurs.  Progress  and  truth  are  on  our  side,  and  every 
day  makes  new  breaches  in  that  rotten  wall  which  we 
are  undermining.  We  are  merely  assisting  the  ages, 
hence  we  must  conquer.  I  speak  with  coolness.  This 
people  of  ours,  those  electors,  are  sheep  yet ;  but  we  wish 
to  make  men  of  them,  and  in  this  is  our  strength.  The 
opposite  camp  will  howl,  will  be  enraged,  will  hurl  mud 
at  us,  will  undermine  us,  will  blacken  us ;  but  we  have 
sharp  teeth.  On  our  side  is  justice,  intelligence,  science ; 
on  theirs,  escutcheons  which  the  mice  are  gnawing.  As 
to  me,  did  I  not  feel  that  justice  and  progress  were  in  my 
principles,  I  should  be  the  first  to  spit  on  all  this  and  go 
to  a  monastery. 

DOCTOR.  Still  it  would  be  fatal  if  we  were  not  to  win 
this  time. 

ANTONI.  I  am  certain  that  wre  shall  win.  Among  them 
there  is  a  panic  as  after  a  defeat.  For  them,  you  are  a 
terrible  candidate.  There  is  only  one  dangerous  op- 
ponent, —  Husarski,  a  rich  noble ;  he  is  popular.  The 
other,  Milishevski,  is  an  advantage  to  you.  By  his 
candidacy  they  merely  divide  themselves.  I  pushed  him 
forward  a  little  myself. 

DOCTOR.     Once  in  the  diet,  I  shall  work  for  influence. 

ANTONI.  And  you  will  get  it.  I  believe  this  and 
therefore  spare  no  labor.  Ha,  ha !  "  They  have  taken 
everything  from  us,"  said  Count  Hornitski,  in  the  club, 
yesterday,  "  significance,  money,  even  good  manners." 
Well,  I,  at  least,  have  not  borrowed  their  good  manners. 
Devil  take  them  ! 

DOCTOR.  True,  thou  hast  not  taken  good  manners 
from  them. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  197 

ANTONI.  But  people  say  in  the  city  that  thy  Prince 
has  given  a  thousand  florins  to  the  people  who  were  burned 
out.  This  may  make  a  bad  impression  for  us.  Thou,  too, 
shouldst  do  something. 

DOCTOR.     I  have  done  what  was  proper. 

ANTONI.  And  now,  I  will  tell  thee  something  more  — 
Well  then,  yesterday  —  But  what  the  deuce  is  the 
matter  ?  lam  speaking,  and  thou  art  thinking  of  some- 
thing else. 

DOCTOR.  Pardon.  A  great  personal  misfortune  has 
struck  me.  I  cannot  think  so  freely  as  usual. 

ANTONI.     What  is  there  new  ? 

DOCTOR.     Thou  couldst  not  understand,  Antoni. 

ANTONI.  On  the  contrary  I  could.  I  am  the  driver  of 
the  carriage  in  which  thou  art  travelling.  I  should 
know  of  everything. 

DOCTOR.     No.     This  in  no  way  concerns  thee. 

ANTONI.  But  it  concerns  thy  energy,  which,  as  it  seems, 
thou  art  losing.  We  need  no  Hamlets. 

DOCTOR  (cjlodmily).  Thou  art  mistaken,  Antoni.  I 
have  not  yielded  the  victory. 

ANTONI.  I  see.  In  speaking  of  this  thy  teeth  are 
gritting  somehow ;  besides,  hang  me,  if  it  lies  in  thy 
character  to  yield  the  victory. 

DOCTOR.  Perhaps  not.  Work  to  make  me  deputy.  I 
shall  lose  two  games,  if  thou  losest. 

ANTONI.  They  must  have  burnt  thee  devilishly,  for 
thy  hissing  is  terrible. 

DOCTOR.  An  old  story.  A  peasant  slept  not  for  six 
years ;  he  ate  not ;  he  made  his  hands  bloody  ;  he  bent  his 
back  and  carried  planks  to  build  his  cottage  ;  after  six 
years  the  lord  came,  kicked  the  cottage,  and  said,  "  Here 
must  my  castle  stand."  We  are  sceptical  enough  to  laugh 
at  this. 


198  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

ANTONI.     He  was  a  genuine  lord. 

DOCTOR.  A  lord  descended  from  lords,  with  a  head  so 
lofty  that  he  paid  no  attention  to  what  was  cracking 
under  his  feet. 

ANTONI.  That  history  is  to  my  taste.  And  what  did 
the  peasant  do  ? 

DOCTOR.  Agreeable  to  old  peasant  tradition,,  he  is 
thinking  of  punk  and  steel.1 

ANTONI.  A  splendid  thought!  In  truth,  we  despise 
tradition  too  much.  There  are  very  wholesome  things 
in  it. 

DOCTOR.     Enough.     Let  us  speak  of  something  else. 

ANTONI  (looking  around).  An  old  house,  and  impos- 
ing. What  a  cottage  it  would  be ! 

DOCTOR.     Of  what  art  thou  speaking  ? 

ANTONI.  Nothing.  Yozvovich,  has  the  old  Prince  a 
daughter  ? 

DOCTOR.    Yes.     What  of  it  ? 

ANTONI  (laughing).  Ha,  ha !  As  God  lives,  ladies' 
perfumes  have  come  to  me.  From  thy  misfortune  and 
thy  history,  I  catch  the  odor  of  some  princess's  petticoat. 
Behind  the  deputy  is  Yozvovich,  as  behind  a  dresscoat  is 
the  dressing-gown.  Be  greeted  in  the  dressing-gown, 
beloved  deputy  !  Oh,  what  an  odor  of  perfumes  here  ! 

DOCTOR.  Sell  thy  subtleties  at  another  market.  This 
is  a  personal  question. 

ANTONI.  By  no  means,  for  it  signifies  that  thou  art 
putting  only  half  thy  soul  in  affairs  of  the  public.  This 
is  giving  them  to  the  deuce.  Look  at  me :  they  hunt  me 
like  a  dog  in  the  daily  papers ;  they  ridicule  me  in  com- 
edies ;  but  I  care  not,  I  will  say  more,  I  feel  that  I  shall 
remain  always  below,  though  I  lack  neither  power  nor 
intelligence.  I  might  strive  for  the  first  place  in  the 

1  For  setting  fire. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  199 

camp,  for  leadership ;  but  still  I  do  not  do  so.  Why  ? 
Because  I  know  myself  thoroughly.  I  know  that  I  have 
neither  firmness,  dignity,  nor  tact.  I  have  been,  and  I 
am,  an  impulsive  fellow,  a  tool  which  those  like  thee 
make  use  of,  and  which  may  be  kicked  out  to-morrow, 
when  it  ceases  to  be  useful.  But  vanity  does  not  blind 
me ;  I  care  not  myself ;  I  work  for  my  convictions,  that 
is  the  end.  They  may  eject  me  from  my  office  any  day  ; 
in  my  house  want  appears  frequently,  and  though  I  love 
my  wife  and  my  little  boys—  Let  us  leave  all  this. 
When  the  play  is  on,  let  it  continue ;  and  when  it  is  a 
question  of  convictions,  I  will  live,  agitate,  and  storm 
for  it.  I  have  put  my  whole  soul  into  this.  But  in  thy 
case  a  princess's  petticoat  stands  in  the  way  !  I  did  not 
expect  this  of  thee,  Yozvovich.  Tfu  !  spit  on  everything, 
and  come  with  us ! 

DOCTOR.  Thou  art  mistaken,  Brutus.  I  wish  not 
martyrdom,  but  victory  ;  and  the  more  personal  ties  there 
are  which  bind  me  to  the  cause,  the  more  zealously 
shall  I  serve  it  with  mind,  heart,  and  action,  —  with 
everything  that  makes  a  man  —  dost  understand  ? 

ANTONI.  Ainen  !  His  eyes  are  glittering  like  those  of 
a  wolf.  I  know  thee. 

DOCTOR.     What  more  dost  thou  wish  ? 

ANTONI.  Ei !  nothing  now.  I  will  say  only  that  our 
programme  is :  Strike  opposing  principles,  not  people. 

DOCTOR.  Let  thy  maiden  virtue  be  at  rest;  I  shall 
poison  no  man. 

ANTONI.  I  believe.  Still  I  should  say  something 
more.  I  know  thee  well,  I  value  thy  energy,  thy  science, 
thy  sound  sense,  but  I  should  not  like  to  stand  in  thy 
path. 

DOCTOR.     All  the  better  for  me. 

ANTONI.     For  that  matter,  if  it  is  a  question  of  the 


200  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

nobility  ;  then,  in  spite  of  our  programme,  I  give  them  to 
thee.  But  thou  art  not  to  take  their  heads  off. 

DOCTOR.  Of  course.  Now  go  back  and  work  for  me,  or 
rather  for  us. 

ANTONI.     For  us,  Yozvovich.     Do  not  forget  that. 

DOCTOR.     Without  an  oath,  I  shall  not  forget  it. 

ANTONI.     But  how  manage  that  young  noble  ? 

DOCTOR.     Dost  wish  to  extort  assurances  ? 

ANTONI.  To  begin  with,  I  do  not  need  them,  since  in 
our  camp  there  is  shrewdness  enough.  The  question  is 
simply  of  the  Prince's  daughter.  My  thought  comes 
always  to  this,  that  thou  mayst  sacrifice  the  cause  for 
her.  Working  for  thee,  I  answer  for  thee ;  so  let  us  be 
outspoken. 

DOCTOR.     Let  us  be  outspoken. 

ANTONI.  Then  thou  hast  said  to  thyself :  I  will  un- 
horse that  young  noble  ;  well,  unhorse  him.  That  is  thy 
affair,  but  I  ask  again :  Dost  thou  wish  to  be  a  deputy  for 
us,  or  for  the  Princess  ?  This  again  is  my  affair. 

DOCTOR.  I  place  my  cards  on  the  table  before  thee. 
I,  thou,  and  all  of  us  new  men  have  this  in  us,  —  that  we 
are  not  dolls  cut  out  of  paper,  and  painted  in  one 
color.  There  is  in  us  room  for  convictions,  love, 
hatred,  in  a  word,  as  I  have  said  already,  for  everything 
of  which  a  complete  man  is  made.  Nature  gave  me  a 
heart,  and  the  right  to  life,  so  I  desire  happiness.  It  gave 
me  a  mind,  so  I  serve  a  chosen  idea.  What  harm  does 
one  do  the  other  ?  Why  oppose  the  Princess  to  the  cause  ? 
Art  thou  a  reasonable  and  sober-minded  man  ?  Why 
dost  thou  wish  to  put  a  phrase  in  place  of  reality  ?  I  have 
a  right  to  happiness,  and  I  shall  win  it,  and  I  shall  be 
able  to  reconcile  life  with  an  idea,  like  a  sail  with  a  boat. 
I  shall  advance  all  the  more  securely.  Understand  me. 
In  this  is  our  strength,  that  we  are  able  to  reconcile ;  and 


ON  A   SINGLE  CARD.  201 

in  this  is  our  superiority  over  them,  for  they  simply  do 
not  know  how  to  live.  What  my  value  will  be  without 
that  woman  —  I  know  not.  Thou  hast  called  me  Hamlet. 
I  might  become  one ;  but  the  people  need  no  Hamlets. 

AN  TON  i.  Thou  art  whirling  my  head  around  as  in  a 
mill,  and  it  seems  to  me  again  that  thou  art  right.  Still, 
thou  wilt  fight  two  battles  instead  of  one,  and  thou  wilt 
divide  the  forces. 

DOCTOR.     I  have  forces  enough ! 

ANTONI.     Tell  me  briefly,  is  she  betrothed  ? 

DOCTOR.     She  is. 

ANTONI.     And  she  loves  her  betrothed  ? 

DOCTOR.     Or  deceives  herself. 

ANTONI.     In  every  case,  she  does  not  love  thee. 

DOCTOR.  Him,  first  of  all,  must  I  set  aside.  Mean- 
while do  thou  fly  away  and  work. 

ANTONI  (looking  at  his  watch).  In  a  moment  the 
deputation  to  thee  will  be  here. 

DOCTOR.  That  is  well.  The  Prince  is  coming  with 
Countess  Milishevski,  and  her  son  is  my  opponent.  Let 
us  go. 

SCENE  II. 

PRINCE,  STELLA,  PANI  CHESKI,  COUNTESS  MILISHEVSKI, 
YAN  MILISHEVSKI,  PODCHASKI. 

COUNTESS.  So  I  say,  Prince,  that  one  cannot  under- 
stand such  a  thing.  At  present  the  world  is  growing 
utterly  wild,  it  seems. 

PRINCE.     I  say  the  same,  Countess.     Stella,  do  I  not  ? 

STELLA.     Oh,  very  often. 

COUNTESS  (in  a  whisper  to  her  son).  Sit  near  the 
Princess,  and  entertain  her,  Jean,  do  thy  best. 

YAN.     Yes,  mamma ! 


202  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

COUNTESS.  But  this  insolence  has  passed  the  measure. 
I  sent  Pan  Podchaski  to  the  electors,  and  they  answered, 
"  We  want  no  deputies  without  heads."  I  am  only  aston- 
ished that  the  Prince  is  not  indignant.  To  what  has  it 
come,  and  to  what  will  it  come  ?  I  fly  about  here ;  I  run, 
I  circle  around  like  a  fly ;  I  move  heaven  with  my  prayers, 
and  they  dare  oppose  to  my  son  one  Yozvovich. 

PKINCE.  Gracious  lady,  what  can  I  do  to  remedy  the 
position  ? 

COUNTESS.  But  who  is  this  Pan  Yozvovich  ?  A  doc- 
tor !  What  is  a  doctor  ?  Jean  has  influence,  significance, 
connections,  relatives,  but  who  is  Yozvovich  ?  Whence 
did  he  bring  himself  to  this  place  ?  Who  has  ever  heard 
of  him  ?  In  truth,  I  cannot  speak  calmly,  and  think  that 
the  end  of  the  world  must  be  coming.  Is  that  not  the 
case,  Pan  Podchaski  ? 

PODCHASKI  (with  a  bow).  True,  Countess,  my  benefac- 
tress !  The  anger  of  God !  —  never  has  it  thundered  so 
often  — 

PKINCE.     Thundered  ?     Pani  Cheski,  has  it  thundered  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  It  is  usual  at  the  end  of  spring.  No 
significance. 

COUNTESS  (whispers).     Jean,  do  thy  best. 

YAN.     I  am  doing  so,  mamma. 

COUNTESS.  Prince,  you  will  see  that  they  will  not 
elect  Yan  deputy  purely  through  hatred  of  us,  through 
spite  against  us.  Would  he  not  be  a  successful  deputy  ? 
Has  he  not  finished  a  scientific  course  in  Metz  ?  They 
say  that  he  is  ignorant  of  the  country,  has  no  knowledge 
of  its  needs.  But  first  of  all  we  should  not  permit  Yozvo- 
vich to  mean  anything  in  the  country.  Should  we, 
Prince  ? 

PRINCE.  Not  permit  him,  Countess,  when  he  permits 
himself ! 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  203 

COUNTESS.  This  is  precisely  the  eiid  of  the  world,  that 
men  like  him  can  permit  themselves  what  they  like.  They 
have  the  insolence  to  say  that  my  son  cannot  be  a  good 
deputy,  but  Pan  Yozvovich  can.  Jean  always  excelled  in 
science  at  Metz.  Jean,  didst  thou  not  always  excel  in 
science  and  talent  ? 

YAN.     I  excelled,  mamma. 

PODCHASKI.  The  end  of  the  world!  Your  words, 
Countess,  are  sacred. 

STELLA.     What  did  you  devote  yourself  to,  specially  ? 

YAN.     I,  Princess,  studied  the  history  of  heresies. 

PRINCE.     What  did  he  study,  Pani  Cheski  ? 

COUNTESS.  They  have  always  reproached  us  with  this, 
that  so  far  we  have  not  had  talents  among  us,  and  still, 
for  diplomacy,  no  small  talent  is  needed. 

PODCHASKI.  The  Count  has  the  mien  of  a  diplomat, 
indeed. 

PRINCE.    No,  as  God  lives  —  not  greatly  ! 

PANI  CHESKI.     The  Count  is  reticent  and  dignified. 

YAN.  On  the  contrary,  madam,  I  speak  enough  some- 
times. 

COUNTESS.  As  to  me,  I  declare  in  advance,  that  if  Jean 
is  not  elected,  it  will  be  the  Prince's  fault. 

PRINCE.    My  fault  ? 

COUNTESS.  How  can  you,  Prince,  permit  such  a  person 
as  Yozvovich  to  oppose  people  of  society  ?  How  can  you 
retain  him  ? 

PRINCE.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  I  who  retain  him, 
but  he  me,  for  had  it  not  been  for  him  —  {He  makes 
a  sign  with  his  hand.) 

COUNTESS.  All  the  greater  reason  to  restrain  him. 
He  is  needed  in  your  house,  and  when  he  is  at  the 
diet,  who  will  look  after  you  ? 

PRINCE.     That  is  true,  Stella,  is  it  not  true  ? 


204  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

COUNTESS.  You  must  forbid  him,  Prince.  I  will  not 
go  till  you  promise  to  forbid  him.  This  is  an  unheard- 
of  thing  !  You  have  the  right ;  besides  he  is  with  you ; 
you  have  reared  him,  and  you  have  power  over  htm. 

STELLA.  Dear  lady,  the  doctor  is  papa's  friend.  Papa 
can  only  pray  him,  and  I  know  not  whether  his  prayer 
would  be  effectual. 

COUNTESS  (with  anger).  Has  it  come  to  this,  then  ? 
So  the  Prince  will  support  him,  and  become  a  tool  in  his 
hands,  and  through  him  serve  the  democracy  ? 

PRINCE.  What  ?  I  serve  the  democracy  ?  Stella,  dost 
thou  hear  ?  I  serve  the  democracy  ?  (He  strikes  with 
his  cane.) 

COUNTESS.  All  men  will  say  so.  Pan  Yozvovich  is 
the  candidate  of  the  democracy. 

PRINCE.  But  I  am  not,  and  if  it  comes  to  this,  I  will 
not  permit  him  to  be  its  candidate.  We  have  had  enough 
of  this,  let  it  end  once  for  all.  Those  democracies  of  Pan 
Yozvovich  have  become  fish-bones.  They  must  not  say 
that  I  am  a  tool  of  the  democracy !  (He  rings,  the  SER- 
VANT enters)  Beg  the  doctor  to  come  this  minute. 

COUNTESS.     This  time  he  is  a  genuine  prince. 

PRINCE.     I  serve  the  democracy  ! 

STELLA,     Papa !  papa  ! 

CO*UNTESS.  Meanwhile  we  will  take  leave  of  the 
Prince.  Jean,  make  ready.  Adieu,  dear  Stella,  adieu, 
my  child.  (To  her  son.)  Kiss  the  Princess's  hand. 

SCENE  III. 

The  above,  DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH. 

DOCTOR.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Prince,  if  I  am  late,  but 
a  deputation  waited  on  me.  I  had  to  finish  with  it. 

COUNTESS.  What  ?  —  is  there  a  deputation  here  ? 
Jean,  do  your  best! 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  205 

DOCTOR  (with  a  bow).  Hurry,  Count,  for  they  are 
going. 

PODCHASKI.     Serene  Prince,  I  fall  at  your  feet. 

[The  COUNTESS,  YAN,  and  PODCHASKI  go  out; 
after  them,  STELLA  and  PANI  CHESKI. 

SCENE  IV. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH  and  the  PRINCE.    A  moment  of  silence. 

PRINCE  (striking  the  floor  with  his  cane).  I  give  notice, 
Pan  Yozvovich,  that  I  forbid  you  to  stand  for  election. 

DOCTOR.     But  if  I  do  not  obey  ? 

PRINCE.     You  will  enrage  me. 

DOCTOR.     Prince,  you  close  my  future. 

PRINCE  (in  a  passion}.  I  reared  you  from  early 
boyhood. 

DOCTOR.     I  preserve  your  life. 

PRINCE.     I  have  been  a  father  to  you. 

DOCTOR.  Let  us  speak  more  calmly,  Prince.  If  you 
have  been  a  father  to  me,  I  have  shown  the  attachment 
of  a  son.  But  a  father  should  not  close  the  road  to  a 
public  career  against  his  son. 

PRINCE.  A  public  career  is  not  for  such  persons  as 
you. 

DOCTOR  (smiling).  A  moment  ago,  Prince,  you  called 
me  a  son. 

PRINCE.     What  son  ?     What  kind  of  a  son  ? 

DOCTOR.     As  the  sonship,  so  the  obedience. 

PRINCE.  Ah,  he  wriggles  out,  he  wriggles  out !  Stella  ! 
But  she  is  gone  ! 

DOCTOR.  Prince,  were  I  really  your  son,  I  should  have 
a  title,  property,  —  in  a  word,  all  that  you  have;  but  as 
a  poor  man,  I  must  open  the  road  to  myself,  and  no  one 
has  the  right  to  close  it  against  me,  especially  when  it  is 
straightforward  and  honorable  (laughing")  ;  unless,  Prince, 


206  ON  A   SINGLE  CARD. 

you  wish  to  adopt  me,  so  that  the  family  might  not 
die  out. 

PEINCE.     What  are  you  saying,  Yozvovich  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  was  only  jesting.  No,  dear  Prince,  let  us 
not  irritate  each  other,  for  that  is  harmful. 

PRINCE.  True,  irritation  harms  me.  Why  the  devil 
will  you  not  give  up  that  election,  my  boy? 

DOCTOR.  You  should  put  yourself  in  my  position. 
That  is  my  future. 

PRINCE.  Meanwhile,  people  attack  me  here,  irritate 
me,  and  bring  me  to  my  bed.  When  young,  I  was  in 
many  a  battle  and  feared  nothing ;  I  can  show  my  deco- 
rations. I  had  no  fear  of  death  in  battle ;  but  these 
Latin  diseases  of  the  doctors  —  Why  look  at  me  so  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  look  as  usual.  But  as  to  disease,  I  will 
tell  you,  Prince,  it  is  more  in  your  imagination  than  in 
reality.  Your  organism  is  strong,  and,  with  my  aid,  you 
will  live  to  the  years  of  Methuselah. 

PRINCE.     Are  you  certain  of  that  ? 

DOCTOR.     Most  certain. 

PRINCE.     Honest  lad,  and  you  will  not  leave  me  ? 

DOCTOR.     You  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  not. 

PRINCE.  Then  become  a  deputy  or  a  devil,  if  you 
like  !  Stella !  But  she  is  not  here !  As  God  lives,  that 
Milishevski,  have  you  noticed  him,  is  a  fool,  is  he  not  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  cannot  contradict. 

SCENE  V. 
The  same,  STELLA,  PANI  CHESKI. 

STELLA.  I  came  in  because  I  was  afraid  that  you  gen- 
tlemen might  contradict  each  other  too  much.  How  has 
it  ended  ? 

PRINCE.     How  ?     That  worthless    man  does  what  he 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  207 

wishes.  It  lacked  little  of  his  commanding  me  to  beg 
him  to  accept  the  nomination. 

DOCTOR.  Indeed,  the  Prince  has  been  pleased  to  agree 
to  my  plans,  and  permits  me  to  try  for  election. 

PRINCE.     Yes,  I  have  permitted. 

STELLA  (threateningly}.     Ah,  dear  doctor  ! 

PANI  CHESKI.  So  many  endeavors  and  disputes ! 
Would  it  not  be  better  for  one  to  yield  to  the  other  ?  For 
that  matter,  the  proverb  says :  "  The  wise  yield  to  the 
foolish." 

DOCTOR.  We  hold  to  this  principle  so  far  in  all 
questions. 

STELLA.  Papa,  come  now  to  the  garden.  Pan  Yerzy 
and  Count  Dragomir  have  come.  They  are  waiting  at 
the  boats,  for  we  are  to  sail  over  the  lake.  The  Count  is 
to  come  here  for  me,  when  all  is  ready. 

PRINCE.  Pani  Cheski,  let  us  go,  then.  (They  go.*) 
Have  you  noticed  that  Milishevski  ? 

SCENE  VI. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICII,  STELLA  ;   later,  COUNT  DRAGOMIR. 

STELLA.  How  is  father's  health,  dear  doctor  ? 

DOCTOR.  The  very  best.     But  you  are  really  pale. 

STELLA.  Oh,  I  am  well. 

DOCTOR.  Then  a  little  pensive  it  must  be. 

STELLA.  Not  even  that.  Perhaps  more  serious  than 
formerly. 

DOCTOR.  As  usual  with  a  betrothed. 

STELLA.  Yes. 

DOCTOR.  Still  you  should  be  amused  and  diverted,  for 
health's  sake. 

STELLA.  Really,  I  have  no  wish  for  amusement. 

DOCTOR.  If  not  amusement,  at  least  gladsomeness  — 


208  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

We  are  all  of  us  here  too  serious  for  you ;  often,  perhaps, 
we  cannot  understand  you. 

STELLA.     You  are  all  even  too  kind,  doctor. 

DOCTOR.  At  least  anxious.  If  you  have  a  moment  of 
time,  Princess,  let  us  sit  down  and  talk.  Let  my  anxiety 
explain  this  boldness.  With  the  dignity  of  a  betrothed 
is  joined  usually  serenity  and  happiness.  Whoso  gives 
away  a  heart  without  regret  cannot  be  sad  at  anything, 
and  looks  serenely  toward  the  future. 

STELLA.  In  every  future  there  is  something  which  at 
moments  may  fill  the  most  daring  soul  with  disquiet. 

DOCTOR.     What  is  that,  Princess  ? 

STELLA.  Even  this,  that  that  future  is  coming  for  the 
first  time. 

DOCTOR.  More  than  once  you  have  called  me  a  sceptic, 
and  still  I  say,  Whoso  loves  believes. 

STELLA.     What  is  to  be  inferred  from  that,  doctor  ? 

DOCTOR.     That  whoso  doubts  — 

STELLA.     Pan  Stanislav ! 

DOCTOR.  I  make  no  inquiry,  Princess.  At  moments  I 
see  that  serenity  vanishes  from  your  face  ;  therefore  I  ask 
as  a  doctor,  as  a  friend.  Set  me  at  rest,  Princess.  I 
pray  you  remember  that  this  question  is  put  by  a  man 
whom  you  have  called  a  brother,  and  who  alone  knows 
how  dear  to  him  is  the  happiness  of  such  a  sister.  I 
have  no  one  in  the  world ;  all  my  family  feelings  are 
bound  up  with  this  house.  I  have  a  heart  which  is  solici- 
tous. Quiet  my  alarms,  that  is  all  I  ask  of  you  ? 

STELLA.     What  alarms  ?    I  cannot  tell  - 

DOCTOR.  Alarms  which  I  hardly  dare  to  confess. 
Since  I  have  corne,  my  eyes  have  not  left  you  ;  and  the 
more  I  see,  the  more  I  fear.  You  dread  the  future  ;  you 
do  not  look  at  it  with  trust  and  hope  — 

STELLA.    Permit  me  to  go  — 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  209 

DOCTOR.  No,  Princess,  I  have  the  right  to  ask  ;  and  if 
you  dare  not  look  into  the  depth  of  your  own  heart,  I 
have  the  right  to  say  even,  that  this  is  weakness,  and  a 
lack  of  courage,  and  later  such  culpable  weakness  is 
punished  by  loss  of  one's  own  happiness  and  that  of 
others.  I,  too,  suffer  while  asking  you  ;  but  there  is  need 
to  ask,  there  is  need.  Listen  to  me,  Princess.  In  whom- 
ever there  is  even  a  shadow  of  doubt,  that  person  is  mis- 
taken as  to  the  nature  of  his  or  her  feelings. 

STELLA.     Doctor !     Is  it  possible  to  mistake  so  ? 

DOCTOK.  It  is  possible.  Sometimes  it  is  possible  to 
mistake  sympathy  for  compassion,  and  pity  for  love. 

STELLA.     What  a  ghastly  mistake  ! 

DOCTOR.  Which  one  recognizes  when  the  heart  rushes 
in  another  direction.  Then  the  seriousness  of  a  be- 
trothed becomes  a  secret  pain.  If  I  mistake,  pardon 
me. 

STELLA.  Pan  Stanislav,  I  do  not  wish  to  think  of  such 
things. 

DOCTOR.  Then  I  am  not  mistaken.  Do  not  look  at  me 
with  fear  ;  I  wish  to  save  you,  dear  child.  Where  is  your 
heart  ?  If  you  recognize  at  this  moment  that  you  do 
not  love  Yerzy,  this  very  moment  will  inform  you  whom 
you  do  love.  No,  I  will  not  withdraw  the  question ! 
Where  is  your  heart  ?  As  God  lives,  if  you  love  some 
one  not  your  equal,  he  will  raise  himself  to  you.  But 
no  !  I  am  going  mad  ! 

STELLA.     I  wish  to  withdraw,  and  I  must. 

DOCTOR  (stopping  Tier).  No !  you  will  not  go  till  you 
answer  —  whom  do  you  love  ? 

STELLA.  Spare  me,  doctor,  or  I  shall  doubt  everything ! 
Take  pity  on  me  ! 

DOCTOR  (violently).     Whom  do  you  love  ? 

14 


210  ON  A   SINGLE  CARD. 

SCENE  VII. 
The  same  and  COUNT  DRAGOMIR. 

DRAGOMIR.     Princess ! 

STELLA.    Ah ! 

DRAGOMIR.  What  is  this  ?  Have  I  frightened  you  ? 
I  have  come  only  to  say  that  we  are  waiting  at  the  boats. 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

STELLA.     Nothing.     Let  us  go. 

[DRAGOMIR  gives  Tier  his  arm  ;  they  go  out. 

SCENE  VIII. 

DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  alone. 

DOCTOR  (looking  after  them}.     Ah,  I  un-der-stand. 
(Curtain  falls.) 
END   OF   SECOND   ACT. 

ACT   III. 

The  same  drawing-room. 

SCENE  I. 
PODCHASKI  enters  first,  after  him,  the  SERVANT. 

PODCHASKI.  Tell  the  doctor  that  Pan  Podchaski  salutes 
him,  and  is  waiting  for  him,  on  urgent  business. 

SERVANT.  The  doctor  is  very  busy,  for  the  Princess  is 
ill ;  but  I  will  tell  him.  [Goes  out. 

PODCHASKI  (alone).  Fiu !  Fiu !  The  Countess  sends  me 
to  the  suburbs.  "  Podchaski  fly  !  Podchaski  agitate ! 
Podchaski  persuade  ! "  But  money  she  gives  not.  I  fly ; 
I  bow  down ;  I  persuade ;  I  press  the  hands  of  vulgar 
people  till  their  eyes  start ;  but  when  I  ask  her  to  lend 
me  a  hundred  florins,  she  says,  "We  shall  see  after 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  211 

election  ! "  Is  that  the  case  ?  Well  indeed  !  So  I  have 
to  lend  to  the  woman  and  not  she  to  me  ?  Must  I  drink 
with  shopkeepers  at  my  own  expense  ?  I  would  rather 
drink  alone  !  To  the  deuce  with  such  a  service  !  I  fall 
at  the  feet  of  the  Countess,  my  benefactress.  I  kiss  her 
feet.  If  that 's  to  be  the  way,  I  shall  succeed  somewhere 
else.  This  is  a  fool's  service  !  I  would  rather  go  over  to 
the  doctor.  Persons  like  him  pay,  for  they  are  clever. 
And  since  he  will  take  the  whole  party,  one  would  rise 
in  significance.  She  is  an  aristocrat,  but  refuses  to  lend 
a  noble  a  hundred  florins. 

SCENE  II. 
PODCHASKI,  DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH. 

PODCHASKI.  I  salute  you,  Pan  Doctor,  I  extend  myself 
at  the  feet  of  the  doctor,  my  benefactor. 

DOCTOR.    With  what  can  I  serve  you,  Pan  Podchaski  ? 

PODCHASKI.  My  benefactor,  I  come  directly  without 
delay  to  my  business.  It  is  known  to  you,  my  benefactor, 
that  I  have  given  my  services  to  Countess  Milishevski. 

DOCTOR.     Somewhat. 

PODCHASKI.  As  a  former  country  resident,  for  I  had 
land  here  — 

DOCTOR.  After  losing  the  land,  you  live  in  Lychakov ; 
and  you  are  agitating  for  young  Count  Milishevski  against 
me. 

PODCHASKI.  God  forbid  —  -  That  is,  I  did;  but  I  opened 
my  eyes  in  season.  What  was  possible  happened.  The 
Milishevskis  have  certain  relations  among  shopkeepers — 
among  citizens  who  respect  descent.  But  be  confident, 
my  benefactor. 

DOCTOR.     In  brief,  what  do  you  want  ? 

PODCHASKI.  God  knows,  my  benefactor,  I  served  the 
Countess  faithfully,  and  spent  no  little  money ;  but  when 


212  ON  A   SINGLE  CARD. 

I  consulted  my  conscience,  I  could  not  go  against  such  a 
wise  man  as  you,  unless  to  the  harm  of  the  country,  and 
that  I  do  not  wish. 

DOCTOR.  I  recognize  your  feelings  of  a  citizen.  You 
do  not  wish  to  go  against  me? 

PODCHASKI.     No,  my  benefactor,  I  do  not. 

DOCTOR.     You  are  right.     So  you  are  with  me  ? 

PODCHASKI.     If  I  may  be  bold  to  offer  my  services. 

DOCTOR.     I  accept. 

PODCHASKI  (aside).  I  understand  such  a  man  —  a 
hundred  florins  are  the  same  as  in  my  pocket.  (Aloud.) 
My  gratitude  — 

DOCTOR  (interrupting).  My  gratitude  will  appear  after 
election. 

PODCHASKI.     After  e-lec-tion ! 

SCENE  III. 
The  above,  YAN  MILISHEVSKI,  later,  ANTONI. 

YAN.     Good-day,  doctor !     Is  mamma  not  here  ? 

DOCTOR.     No,  Count,  she  is  not. 

YAN.  We  came  here  together,  but  mamma  went 
straight  to  the  Prince's  apartments ;  I  stopped  behind  a 
little,  and  now  I  cannot  find  the  Prince's  apartments. 
(Seeing  PODCHASKI,  who  bows  to  him.)  Ah  !  Podchaski, 
what  are  you  doing  here  ? 

PODCHASKI.  I  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  Count.  Oh,  I 
came  for  advice.  I  have  rheumatism  in  my  feet,  rheuma- 
tism in  my  head  — 

YAN.  Will  you  have  the  kindness,  doctor,  to  show  me 
where  the  Prince's  chambers  are  ? 

DOCTOR.     On  the  left,  in  the  amphitheatre. 

YAN.     Thanks.     But  later  I  should  like  to  see  you. 

DOCTOR.  At  your  service.  (YAN  goes  to  the  door,  where 
he  stumbles  against  ANTONI.) 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  213 

ANTONI.     I  beg  your  pardon  ! 

YAN.  Pardon  !  (He  puts  up  his  eye-glasses,  looks  at  him 
with  curiosity,  then  goes  out.) 

ANTONI  (to  the  DOCTOK).  I  looked  for  thee  in  thy 
rooms,  and  did  not  find  thee,  so  I  hurried  here,  for  they 
told  me  that  thou  wert  here.  Listen  to  me.  Immensely 
important  things.  (Sees  PODCHASKI.)  How  is  this  ?  You, 
our  opponent,  here  ? 

PODCHASKI.     No  longer  an  opponent,  my  benefactor. 

ANTONI  (looking  at  him  a  moment).  All  the  better. 
But  leave  us  alone  now. 

PODCHASKI  (aside).  Oh,  that  is  bad !  (Aloud.)  I  com- 
mend myself  to  the  memory  of  my  benefactors.  (Aside.) 
The  devils  have  taken  the  hundred  florins.  [Goes  out. 

ANTONI.     What  did  he  want  here  ? 

DOCTOR.     Money. 

ANTONI.  But  he  offered  votes  —  I  thought  so.  Didst 
give  him  anything  ? 

DOCTOK.     No. 

ANTONI.  That  is  well.  We  shall  not  bribe.  Agitation 
is  another  thing.  But  never  mind.  Dost  know  ?  It  was 
lucky  that  they  put  up  Milishevski,  otherwise  you  would 
have  lost,  for  Husarski  would  have  had  a  majority.  As  it 
is  even,  he  is  terrible ;  he  has  a  majority  in  some  districts. 

DOCTOR.     Will  they  beat  us,  Antoui  ? 

ANTONI.  No !  I  shall  prevent  that.  Uf,  how  tired  I 
am !  I  will  rest  even  for  five  minutes.  (Sits  down.)  Oh, 
as  I  love  God,  what  soft  sofas  there  are  here.  In  Hus- 
arsty's  districts  we  need  to  give  money  for  some  public 
purposes.  Hast  thou  money  ? 

DOCTOR.     A  little. 

ANTONI.  Some  beginning  —  afterward  thou  wilt  have 
support  from  the  diet.  We  will  found  some  small  school. 
Uf,  how  tired  I  ain  ! 


214  ON   A    SINGLE   CARD. 

DOCTOR.  Well,  here  is  the  key  to  the  bureau ;  there  is 
a  little  ready  money  there  and  a  bank  check. 

ANTONI.  Very  well,  but  I  must  rest.  Meanwhile, 
what  news  have  we  here  ?  Thou  hast  grown  thin ;  thy 
eyes  are  sunken.  Thou  must  be  in  grief.  As  God  lives, 
I  did  not  love  my  wife  in  that  way.  Speak,  while  I  rest, 
but  speak  sincerely. 

DOCTOK.     Have  no  fear,  I  shall  be  frank  with  thee. 

ANTONI.     What  more  ? 

DOCTOR.     That  marriage  will  not  take  place. 

ANTONI.     Why  ? 

DOCTOR.  A  time  has  come  when  these  people  succeed 
in  nothing. 

ANTONI.  To  the  garret  with  thy  peacocks  !  What  is 
that  man-eater,  Pretvits,  doing  ? 

DOCTOR.  It  would  take  long  to  tell.  The  Princess  has 
mistaken  her  pity  and  sympathy  for  something  deeper. 
To-day  she  knows  that  she  does  not  love  him. 

ANTONI.  Thou  art  kind.  In  truth,  one  might  say  that 
some  fatality  pursues  these  people.  It  is  the  lot  of  races 
who  have  outlived  themselves. 

DOCTOR.     The  relentless  logic  of  things. 

ANTONI.  So  she  will  not  marry  Pretvits  ?  Eeally,  I 
am  sorry  for  them.  But  deuce  take  them  ! 

DOCTOR.  She  would  marry  him,  even  if  she  had  to 
keep  her  word  at  the  price  of  her  life.  But  some  third 
man  is  mixed  up  in  the  business  —  Count  Dragomir. 

ANTONI.  Wherever  one  moves  there  is  a  count !  So 
he  is  betraying  Yerzy  ? 

DOCTOR.  Let  the  man  who  taught  thee  to  judge  peo- 
ple return  thy  money. 

ANTONI.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  would  not  give  five  cop- 
pers for  all  your  drawing-room  great  questions. 

DOCTOR.     She  and  Dragomir  do  not  understand  that 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  215 

they  are  in  love.  But  some  irresistible  force  attracts 
them  to  each  other;  what  it  is  they  do  not  inquire. 
They  are  innocent  children. 

ANTONI.  Therefore,  I  ask,  what  benefit  will  come  to 
thee  of  this  ? 

DOCTOK.  Listen,  0  democrat !  When  two  knights  are 
in  love  with  one  castellan's  daughter,  the  love  usually 
has  a  dramatic  ending,  and  the  castellan's  daughter  falls 
to  some  third  man. 

ANTONI.     But  the  knights  ? 

DOCTOR.     The  least  thought  for  them ;  let  them  perish ! 

ANTONI  (declaiming}. 

"  On  his  grave  moss  is  growing. 
Ah  !  but  the  cockerel  is  dead  !  " 

What  will  happen,  thinkest  thou  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  know  not.  Pretvits  is  a  violent  man.  I 
prophesy  nothing ;  I  see  only  the  logic  of  things,  which 
favors  me,  and  I  shall  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  oppose  my 
own  fortune. 

ANTONI.  Oh,  I  am  certain  that  if  the  need  come  thou 
wilt  even  help  it ! 

DOCTOR.  Ha !  I  am  a  doctor.  My  duty  is  to  help 
nature. 

ANTONI.  Here  is  the  programme  ready !  I  know  thee  ! 
But  one  thought  occurs  to  me :  How  dost  thou  know 
that  it  is  as  thou  sayest  ?  Perhaps  all  this  is  random  talk. 

DOCTOR.  I  can  get  most  perfect  information  through 
the  former  governess  of  the  Princess,  Pani  Cheski. 

ANTONI.     Learn  at  the  earliest. 

DOCTOR.  Pani  Cheski  will  come  here  soon ;  I  asked 
her  purposely. 

ANTONI.  Then  I  shall  be  off.  One  thing  more :  Do 
not  help  nature  too  much,  for  that  would  be  — 


216  ON   A   SINGLE  CARD. 


SCENE  IV. 
The  same,  PANI  CHESKI. 

PANI  CHESKI  (entering).  Did  you  wish  to  speak  with 
me? 

DOCTOK.     I  did. 

ANTONI  (bows  to  PANI  CHESKI,  then  to  the  DOCTOR).  I  am 
going  for  the  money  and  will  return  soon  with  the  receipts. 

DOCTOR.     Very  well.  [ANTONIO  goes  out. 

PANI  CHESKI.     Who  is  that  gentleman  ? 

DOCTOR.     A  steersman. 

PANI  CHESKI.     How  is  that  ? 

DOCTOR.  He  is  steering  the  ship  on  which  I  sail ;  for 
the  rest  he  is  a  wonderfully  honest  man. 

PANI  CHESKI.  I  do  not  understand  well.  Of  what 
did  you  wish  to  speak  with  me  ? 

DOCTOR.  Of  the  Princess.  You  and  she  are  like 
mother  and  daughter,  so  you  must  know  everything. 
What  is  the  matter  with  her?  She  is  hiding  some  dis- 
appointment. As  a  doctor,  I  ought  to  know  everything ; 
for  to  cure  physical  illness  one  should  often  know  moral 
causes.  (Aside.)  Spirit  of  Esculapius,  forgive  me  this 
phrase ! 

PANI  CHESKI.  My  good  Pan  Yozvovich,  of  what  are 
you  asking  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  told  you  that  the  Princess  is  concealing 
some  disappointment. 

PANI  CHESKI.     I  know  not. 

DOCTOR.  You  and  I  love  her  equally,  hence  let  us  be 
outspoken. 

PANI  CHESKI.     I  am  ready. 

DOCTOR.     Well,  does  she  love  her  betrothed  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.     What  do  you  ask,  doctor  ?    If  she  did 


ON   A   SINGLE  CARD.  217 

not,  would  she  be  his  betrothed  ?  In  truth,  you  so  like 
to  reason  about  everything  that  sometimes  you  interfere 
more  than  is  needful.  Whom  should  she  love  ?  Natu- 
rally, since  she  is  his  betrothed,  she  loves  him.  I  con- 
sider this  so  simple  that  I  do  not  even  talk  any  more 
with  Stella  about  it. 

DOCTOR.  You  say,  madam,  that  you  do  not  talk  any 
more  ;  therefore  you  have  talked  before  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  True.  She  told  me  that  she  knew  not 
whether  she  loved  him  enough.  But  every  pure  soul 
fears  that  it  may  not  do  its  duty.  What  could  come  to 
your  mind  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  only  wished  to  know.  (Aside.)  A  waste  of 
time  here ! 

SCENE  V. 
The  same,  YAN  MILISHEVSKI. 

YAN.  So  far  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  rnamma. 
Good-day,  Pani.  Perhaps  I  interrupt  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  No,  we  have  finished.  She  will  do  her 
duty,  be  quiet  on  that  point. 

DOCTOR.     Thank  you.  [PANI  CHESKI  goes  out. 

YAN.     Doctor  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  hear. 

YAN.     I  must  talk  of  things  that  are  very  delicate. 

DOCTOR.     I  beg  you  to  be  outspoken. 

YAN.  Let  us  make  an  agreement  like  good  people. 
Mamma  wishes  me  to  become  a  deputy,  but  I  have  no  wish 
that  way. 

DOCTOR.     Excess  of  modesty. 

YAN.  You  are  not  sincere,  and  I  know  not  how  to  de- 
fend myself.  I  should  not  be  a  candidate  at  all  were  it 
not  for  mamma.  You  see  the  affair  is  in  this  way  :  when 


218  ON  A   SINGLE   CAED. 

mamma  wants  anything,  it  must  come.  All  the  Srokos- 
hynskis  are  of  that  kind ;  mamma  is  a  Srokoshynski. 

DOCTOR.     But  you  have  your  own  will. 

YAN.  In  this  lies  the  misery,  that  things  have  so 
shaped  themselves  that  the  Milishevskis  alway  obey 
women.  We  are  distinguished  for  that. 

DOCTOR.  A  knightly  characteristic.  But  how  can  I 
serve  you  ? 

YAN.     I  shall  not  hinder  you  as  a  candidate. 

DOCTOR.  Sincerity  for  sincerity.  Thus  far  instead 
of  hindering,  you  have  helped  me. 

YAN.  I  know  not  how,  but  if  that  be  true,  then  help 
me  in  turn. 

DOCTOR.    How  ? 

YAN.  This  matter  is  especially  delicate.  But  a  secret 
from  mamma. 

DOCTOR.     Naturally. 

YAN.  Mamma  wishes  me  to  marry  the  Princess ;  but 
I  do  not  wish  to  marry  her. 

DOCTOR.     You  do  not  wish  ? 

YAN.     You  are  astonished  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  confess  — 

YAN.  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  her,  because  I  do  not 
wish.  When  a  man  has  no  desire  to  marry,  well,  he  has 
no  desire.  Imagine  that  I  love  another.  Perhaps  I  do. 
It  is  enough  that  she  is  not  the  Princess.  Naturally, 
when  mamma  says,  "  Jean,  do  your  best ! "  I  go  on,  for 
what  am  I  to  do  ?  The  Milishevskis  know  how  to 
manage  men,  but  as  for  women,  oh,  ho! 

DOCTOR.  But  I  cannot  understand  how  I  may  be 
useful. 

YAN.  Doctor,  you  know  that  you  can  do  anything  in 
this  house,  so  bring  it  about  in  secret  from  my  mother, 
that  I  should  be  refused. 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  219 

DOCTOR.  Count,  for  you  I  shall  do  what  is  humanly 
possible. 

YAN.     I  thank  you. 

DOCTOR.  And  I  will  undertake  this  the  more  gladly 
since  the  Princess  is  betrothed. 

YAN.  But  I  did  not  know  that  any  one  was  climbing 
into  my  way  here. 

DOCTOR  (aside).  A  good  idea !  (Aloud.)  Pan  Yerzy 
Pretvits. 

YAN.     Then  they  wished  to  make  a  fool  of  me ! 

DOCTOR.  Pan  Pretvits  is  an  insolent  man.  I  even 
confess  to  you  that  you  were  right  when  you  called  this 
a  delicate  affair.  Pan  Pretvits  is  feared ;  so  if  you  yield 
people  may  think  — 

YAN.  They  may  think  that  I  am  afraid  ?  Well,  I 
will  not  give  way.  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  I  see  that  you  do 
not  know  the  Milishevskis  at  all.  It  is  only  women 
that  we  are  not  able  to  manage ;  but  no  Milishevski 
was  ever  a  coward.  I  know  that  people  laugh  at  me; 
but  if  any  one  calls  me  a  coward,  I  will  teach  him  not 
to  laugh.  I  will  show  quickly  whether  I  am  a  coward. 
What  about  Pan  Pretvits  ?  Where  is  he  now  ? 

DOCTOR.  At  this  moment  in  the  garden.  (Pointing 
through  the  window. )  You  see  him  there  by  the  lake. 

YAN.     Till  we  see  each  other ! 

SCENE  VI. 
DOCTOR,  alone,  later,  ANTONI. 

DOCTOR.     Many  fathers  are  childless !     Ha !  ha ! 

ANTONI  (running  in).  Art  thou  at  home  ?  Here  are 
the  receipts.  Why  art  thou  laughing  ? 

DOCTOR.  Milishevski  has  rushed  off  to  challenge 
Pretvits  to  a  duel 


220  ON   A   SINGLE    CARD. 

ANTONI.     What  ?     Are  they  mad  ? 

DOCTOR.  Pretvits  will  stand  before  her  in  a  pretty 
light,  this  knight  without  reproach,  if  he  has  an  en- 
counter with  such  a  fool.  In  a  pretty  light ! 

ANTONI.     But  hast  thou  wound  it  up  so  ? 

DOCTOR.     As  I  told  thee,  I  will  help  nature. 

ANTONI.     Assist  for  thyself,  but  I  am  off. 

DOCTOR.  Farewell !  But  no,  I  will  go  with  thee ;  I 
cannot  permit  that  the  adventure  go  too  far. 

ANTONI.  I  wanted  to  tell  thee,  besides,  that  with  thy 
money  I  bought  food  for  my  little  boys.  I  will  return 
it  later.  Do  you  permit  ? 

DOCTOR.     How  canst  thou  ask,  Antoni  ?     \_He  goes  out. 


SCENE  VII. 

STELLA,  with   a  hat    in  her  hand,  COUNT    DRAGOMIR. 
They  enter  the  door  from  the  garden. 

STELLA.  The  walk  has  tired  me  a  little.  You  see, 
Pan  Karol,  how  feeble  I  am.  (Sits  down.)  Where  is 
Pan  Yerzy  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  With  young  Milishevski,  who  asked  for 
a  talk  with  him.  The  Countess  is  discussing  with  the 
Prince.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  little  scene  there. 
The  Countess  did  not  know  that  you  were  betrothed,  and 
likely  she  had  her  plans.  But,  pardon  me,  Princess, 
I  laugh,  and  that  causes  you  suffering. 

STELLA.  I  should  wish  to  laugh,  did  I  not  know  that 
this  caused  papa  trouble.  Also,  I  am  sorry  for  Count 
Milishevski. 

DRAGOMIR.  I  understand  what  in  his  position  a  truly 
loving  heart  may  feel ;  as  to  Yan,  I  am  at  rest.  He  will 
console  himself,  if  his  mother  commands  him. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  221 

STELLA.  At  times  it  is  possible  to  mistake  people 
greatly. 

DRAGOMIR.     Are  you  talking  of  me,  or  Milishevski  ? 

STELLA.  Let  it  be  of  you.  Before  we  met,  people  men- 
tioned you  to  me  as  a  collection  of  all  the  perfections. 

DRAGOMIR.  And  you  have  found  me  a  collection  of  all 
the  faults. 

STELLA.     I  have  not  said  that. 

DRAGOMIR.  But  you  think  it,  I  believe.  As  to  me,  I 
am  not  mistaken,  the  portrait  of  you  painted  by  Yerzy 
and  the  doctor  agrees  with  reality. 

STELLA.     How  was  it  painted  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     With  wings  at  the  shoulders. 

STELLA.  That  means  that  I  have  as  much  dignity  as 
a  butterfly  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  The  wings  of  angels  are  consonant  with 
dignity. 

STELLA.  Eeal  friendship  should  tell  the  truth.  I 
pray  for  some  bitter  truth. 

DRAGOMIR.     Shall  it  be  very  bitter  ? 

STELLA.     As  wormwood,  or  as  life  is  at  times. 

DRAGOMIR.     You  are  not  kind  toward  me. 

STELLA.     For  what  sin  must  I  do  penance  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     For  lack  of  friendship  toward  me. 

STELLA.  I  am  the  first  to  appeal  to  friendship ;  biit  in 
what  condition  of  it  do  I  fail  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  You  share  with  me  joyousness,  amuse- 
ment, laughter ;  but  when  a  moment  of  sadness  or  bitter- 
ness comes,  you  keep  the  bitter  flowers  and  the  thorns 
for  yourself.  Share  such  moments  too,  \  beg  earnestly. 

STELLA.  I  have  never  wished  to  disturb  your  joyous- 
ness  ;  it  was  not  egotism  on  my  part. 

DRAGOMIR.  Neither  is  my  joyousness  egotistic.  Yerzy 
told  me  of  you  when  I  came  here ;  he  said,  "  I  can  only 


222  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

gaze  at  her,  and  pray  to  her ;  them  art  younger,  more 
gladsome,  try  to  amuse  and  divert  her."  So  I  brought 
all  my  joyousness  here,  as  wares  on  my  shoulders,  and 
laid  them  at  your  feet.  But  for  some  time  I  have  seen 
that  I  only  torture  you.  I  see  a  cloud  on  your  face ;  I 
suspect  some  secret  sorrow  and,  as  a  real  friend,  I  would 
give  my  life  to  dispel  it. 

STELLA  (in  a  low  voice).     Count. 

DKAGOMIK  (clasping  his  hands').  Permit  me  to  speak. 
In  life  I  have  been  a  thoughtless  fellow ;  but  I  followed 
the  voice  of  my  heart,  and  with  my  heart  I  divined  your 
sadness.  From  that  moment  a  shadow  fell  on  my  joy- 
ousness; but  I  conquered  it.  Tears  once  shed  never 
return;  but  a  friendly  hand  may  arrest  a  tear  on  the 
way  to  the  eye.  I  overcame  myself,  so  as  not  to  let 
tears  go  to  your  eyes.  If  I  have  erred,  if  I  have 
chosen  the  wrong  road,  I  beg  forgiveness.  Your  life 
will  be  arranged  like  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  so  be  joyous, 
be  gladsome. 

STELLA  (gives  him  her  hand,  with  emotioii).  I  shall  be 
in  your  company.  I  am  a  capricious  girl,  petted,  and  a 
little  ill.  Often  I  do  not  know  myself  what' the  trouble 
is.  I  am  happy,  really  happy.  Those  are  passing  mo- 
ments; I  promise  amendment.  We  shall  spend  more 
than  one  moment  joyously  yet. 

DEAGOMIR.  In  that  case  what  do  we  care,  as  Pani 
Cheski  says.  Let  us  try  to  overcome  ourselves ;  we  will 
laugh,  run  in  the  garden,  play  tricks  on  Mamma  Mili- 
shevski  and  her  son. 

STELLA.  I  divine  the  secret  of  your  gladsomeness  and 
happiness,  —  it  is  honesty  of  heart  and  kindness. 

DEAGOMIR.  No,  I  am  very  heedless.  But  so  far  I  have 
lived  peacefully  enough  ;  real  happiness,  however,  does  not 
lie  in  peace. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  223 

STELLA.  Sometimes  I  think  that  it  does  not  exist  in 
the  world  at  all. 

DRAGOMIR.  Keason  cannot  seize  it,  and  cannot  fly  after 
that  winged  vision.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  it  flits  past  near 
us ;  hut  before  a  man  looks  around,  before  he  stretches  out 
a  hand,  he  is  too  late. 

STELLA.     What  torturing  words,  —  too  late. 

SCENE  VIII. 
The  same,  DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH. 

DOCTOR  (comes  in  laughing).  Ha  !  ha  !  do  you  know 
what  has  happened  ? 

STELLA.     Is  it  something  amusing,  doctor  ? 

DOCTOR.  Something  awful,  tragic,  terrible,  but  above 
all  ridiculous  !  Milishevski  wanted  to  challenge  Yerzy. 

STELLA.     My  God ! 

DOCTOR.  Laugh  with  me,  Princess.  If  this  were  some- 
thing dangerous,  I  should  not  have  frightened  you. 

DRAGOMIR.     How  did  it  end  ? 

DOCTOR.  Do  you  know  that  I  went  so  far  as  to  be 
angry  with  Yerzy.  Imagine  that  he  took  the  matter 
seriously. 

DRAGOMIR.     But  I  pray  you,  what  had  he  to  do  ? 

DOCTOR.  But  for  a  man  like  Yerzy,  it  would  be  a 
shame  to  have  a  pistol  duel  with  such  a  pitiful  person ! 

STELLA.  The  doctor  is  right.  I  cannot  understand 
Pan  Yerzy. 

DOCTOR.  Let  not  our  Princess  be  angry,  I  reconciled 
them.  But  Yerzy  did  not  penetrate  the  heart  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  his  native  impulsiveness  carried  him  away.  Now, 
however,  he  has  halted,  and  when  I  explained  the  whole 
affair  to  him,  he  agreed  that  it  would  have  been  at  least 
ridiculous.  He  has  mucli  judgment. 


224  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

DKAGOMIR.     What  did  Milishevski  do  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  sent  him  to  his  mamma.  He  is  a  good 
fellow  also. 

STELLA.     But  I  shall  open  a  storm  on  Pan  Yerzy. 

DRAGOMIR.     Only  be  not  too  severe. 

STELLA.  You  are  laughing,  gentlemen ;  but  to  me  it  is. 
painful  that  there  was  need  to  explain  this  to  Pan  Yerzy. 
In  truth  he  shall  have  a  storm  right  away.  [Goes  out. 

SCENE  IX. 
DRAGOMIR,  DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH. 

DRAGOMIR.     What  an  angel  that  Princess  is  ! 

DOCTOR.  True,  there  is  not  one  taint  in  her  crys- 
talline nature. 

DRAGOMIR.  It  must  be  so,  since  even  you,  doctor,  a 
sceptic,  speak  of  her  with  such  warmth. 

DOCTOR.  Six  years  have  passed  since  I  came  here. 
When  I  arrived  the  first  time,  she  ran  out  to  me  in  a  short 
dress,  and  with  her  hair  in  papers,  —  such  a  little  thing. 
Since  then  she  has  grown  up  before  me.  Six  years  have 
their  rights  ;  it  would  have  been  difficult  not  to  grow  at- 
tached to  her. 

DRAGOMIR.  I  believe  that.  (After  a  moment  of 
thought.)  You  people  of  work  have  wonderful  hearts 
though. 

DOCTOR.     Why  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  I  know  what  you  might  say  of  her  social 
position ;  but  that  has  no  meaning,  hearts  are  equal, 
hence  how  has  it  happened  that,  being  so  near  the  Prin- 
cess, you  have  been  able  to  master  yourself  and  not  —  and 
not  — 

DOCTOR  (interrupting  him).     What  is  that  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     It  is  difficult  for  me  to  find  the  expression. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  225 

DOCTOR.  I  have  found  it.  You  ask  me  why  I  have 
not  fallen  in  love  with  her  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     I  hesitated  before  the  over-bold  question. 

DOCTOR.  In  truth,  if  you  are  lacking  in  decision,  I 
will  help  you  out  and  inquire  :  But  you  ? 

DRAGOMIR.    Doctor ! 

DOCTOR.     What  lyric  chord  has  groaned  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     Let  us  finish  this  conversation. 

DOCTOR.  As  may  please  you,  though  I  can  talk  calmly 
yet,  and  so  to  change  the  conversation  I  would  ask  you, 
Will  she  be  happy  with  Yerzy  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  What  a  question  !  Yerzy  loves  her  beyond 
everything. 

DOCTOR.  No  doubt,  but  their  natures  are  not  in 
accord.  Her  thoughts  and  feelings  are  as  subtle  as 
spiderwebs,  and  Yerzy  ?  Have  you  seen  how  it  pricked 
her,  that  he  accepted  the  challenge  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     Why  did  you  mention  the  affair  to  her  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  did  wrong.     But  Yerzy  — 

DRAGOMIR.     How  happy  he  will  be  with  her ! 

DOCTOR.  Any  man  would  be  happy  with  her,  and  to 
every  man  one  might  give  the  advice,  find  one  like  her. 
Yes,  Count,  find  one  like  her.  [He  goes  out. 

SCENE  X. 

COUNT  DRAGOMIR,  alone. 

DRAGOMIR  (to  himself).  Find  one  like  her.  But  if  she 
is  found  —  too  late.  (He  sits  with  his  face  covered  with  his 
hand.} 

SCENE  XL 
STELLA,  DRAGOMIR. 

STELLA  (seeing  DRAGOMIR,  looks  at  him  in  silence  for  a 
while).  What  is  the  matter,  Count  ? 

15 


226  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

DRAGOMIR.     Are  you  here  ?     (A  moment  of  silence.) 
STELLA  (confused).    I  am  looking  for  papa  —  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  must  go. 

DRAGOMIR.     Go,  Princess. 

[STELLA  goes,  stops  on  the  threshold  for  a  moment,  and 

vanishes. 
DRAGOMIR.     I  must  leave  here  as  soon  as  possible ! 

SCENE  XII. 
DRAGOMIR,  PRINCE,  at  the  end,  the  DOCTOR. 

PRINCE  (rushing  in  panting*).  Till  this  moment  she 
has  tormented  me.  O  Jesus,  Mary  !  And  is  that  thou, 
Dragomir  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     I,  Prince. 

PRINCE.     She  tormented  the  life  out  of  me ! 

DRAGOMIR.     Who  ? 

PRINCE.  Countess  Milishevski.  My  dear  man,  how  is 
he  to  be  a  deputy  when  he  is  a  fool  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     True,  Prince. 

PRINCE.  And,  seest  thou  !  after  that,  when  the  mother 
made  a  proposal  to  me  for  Stella,  I  was  just  terrified. 
Besides,  she  is  betrothed,  but  they  did  not  know  it.  0 
Jesus  ! 

DRAGOMIR.    How  did  you  get  off  ? 

PRINCE.  The  doctor  got  me  off.  When  he  is  absent  the 
Countess  does  not  leave  a  dry  thread  on  him ;  but  when 
he  is  here,  she  is  like  a  mouse  in  a  corner.  That 's  a  head, 
that  Yozvovich  !  He  has  more  sense  than  all  of  us. 

DRAGOMIR.     That  is  certain. 

PRINCE.  But  thou  hast  sense  also,  Dragomir,  hast 
thou  not? 

DRAGOMIR.  How  contradict  or  agree  in  this  case  ?  The 
doctor  has  another  kind  of  mind,  Prince. 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  227 

PRINCE.  But  that  is  it !  —  another  kind.  I  cannot 
endure  him,  I  fear  him,  and  I  like  him ;  but  I  say  to 
thee  that  I  could  not  live  without  him.  Dost  hear  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     He  is  a  shrewd  and  honest  man. 

PRINCE.  Honest  ?  That  is  well ;  but  thou  art  better,  for 
thou  art  not  a  democrat.  I  love  thee,  Dragomir !  Stella, 
I  love  him.  But  she  is  not  here. 

DRAGOMIR  (kissing  him  on  the  shoulder).  Thank  you, 
Prince. 

PRINCE.  As  God  lives,  if  I  had  another  daughter,  I 
would  give  her  to  thee. 

DRAGOMIR.  Oh,  do  not  say  that,  Prince.  (Aside.}  I  must 
be  off! 

PRINCE.  Come  for  a  cigar.  We  will  call  those  people 
and  talk  a  little.  Hei,  Yozvovich  !  Pretvits  ! 

DOCTOR  (entering).   What  do  you  command,  Prince  ? 

PRINCE.  Come  for  a  cigar,  Kobespierre  !  I  thank  thee, 
my  boy,  for  having  freed  me  from  that  Countess. 

DOCTOR.  Go  on,  gentlemen,  I  will  send  for  Pretvits,  and 
we  will  come  right  away.  (He  rings,  a  SERVANT  appears ; 
the  PRINCE  and  DRAGOMIR  go  out.')  Ask  Pan  Pretvits  to 
come!  (The  SERVANT  goes.)  (Alone.)  An  toni  was  right ! 
I  am  helping  the  logic.  But  it  is  disagreeable  for  me  to 
undermine,  I  am  accustomed  to  smash. 

SCENE  XIII. 
YERZY,  YOZVOVICH. 

YERZY.     I  was  looking  for  you. 

DOCTOR.     The  Prince  asks  us  to  a  cigar. 

YERZY.  Wait  a  little.  In  the  name  of  God,  tell  me 
what  all  this  means  ?  Stella  changes  before  one's  eyes ; 
there  is  something  oppressive  in  the  air.  What  does  it 
mean? 


228  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

DOCTOR.     Melancholy.     Melancholy  is  in  fashion. 

YERZY.     Thou  art  jesting  with  me  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  know  nothing. 

YERZY.  Pardon  me.  Somehow  the  blood  is  rushing  to 
my  head  in  a  wonderful  way ;  some  storm  is  above  me. 
I  thought  that  thou  wouldst  find  a  calming  word  for 
me  ;  I  thought  thee  friendly  to  me. 

DOCTOR.    Dost  doubt  it  ? 

YERZY.  Give  me  thy  hand,  and  then  some  word  of 
explanation  or  advice. 

DOCTOR.     Advice  ?    Art  thou  ill,  then  ? 

YERZY  (with  an  effort').  Indeed,  thou  art  playing  with 
me,  as  a  cat  with  a  mouse. 

DOCTOR.     I  know  nothing  of  forebodings. 

YERZY.     Didst  thou  tell  me  that  she  was  not  ill  ? 

DOCTOR.     She  is  bored. 

YERZY.  Thou  sayest  that  strangely,  as  though  not 
knowing  what  pain  that  word  causes  me. 

DOCTOR.     Distract  her.1 

YERZY.    How?  How? 

DOCTOR.  Not  as  a  wolf  a  lamb,  but,  for  example,  as 
Count  Dragomir  does. 

YERZY.     Does  she  like  his  society  ? 

DOCTOR.  And  he  hers.  Such  poetic  souls  come  to 
each  other  mutually. 

YERZY.     What  dost  thou  mean  by  that  ? 

DOCTOR  (sharply).    And  how  dost  thou  take  my  words  ? 

YERZY  (rising).  Not  another  syllable,  dost  understand 
me,  I  am  not  always  able  to  forgive ! 

DOCTOR  (rises  too,  approaches  YERZY,  and  looks  him  in 
the  eyes).  I  judge  that  it  is  thy  wish  to  frighten  me  ? 
Besides  this,  what  dost  thou  wish  ? 

1  The  Polish  word  means  also  to  tear  apart ;  hence,  the  different  use  of 
ft  by  the  doctor  in  the  second  line  following. 


ON  A   SINGLE  CARD.  229 

YERZY  (after  a  moment  of  struggle  with  himself).  Ask 
what  I  have  wished,  for  now  I  wish  nothing.  Thou 
knowest  her  longer  than  I ;  so  I  came  to  thee  as  to  her 
friend  and  mine.  Thou  hast  answered  with  jests.  In 
thy  eyes  glitters  hatred  for  me,  though  I  have  done  thee 
no  harm,  and  I  was  the  first  man  to  greet  thee  as  a 
former  comrade.  Judge  thyself !  I  should  have  more 
right  to  ask  what  thou  wishest  of  me  were  it  not  for  this 
(with  pride),  that  all  is  one  to  me.  [Goes  out. 

DOCTOR.    We  shall  see. 

SCENE   XIV. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  the  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.  A  special  messenger  from  Pan  Antoni  has 
brought  a  letter. 

DOCTOR.  Give  it.  (The  SERVANT  goes  out.  The  DOCTOR, 
looking  at  the  door  through  which  YERZY  went  out.)  Oh  ! 
neither  can  I  master  my  hatred  any  longer.  I  will  crush 
thee  in  the  dust;  now  I  will  hesitate  before  nothing. 
(Breaks  the  seal  hastily.)  A  curse !  I  must  go  there 
to-day ! 

SCENE  XV. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  PANI  CHESKI. 

PANI  CHESKI  (coming  in  quickly).  Doctor,  I  am  looking 
for  you  through  the  whole  house. 

DOCTOR.     What  has  happened  ? 

PANI  CHESKI.  Stella  is  ill.  I  found  her  in  her  cham- 
ber in  tears. 

DOCTOR  (aside).  Poor  girl!  (Aloud.)  I  hasten  this 
minute.  \_They  go. 

END   OF   THIRD   ACT. 


230  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

ACT   IV. 

The  same  drawing-room. 
SCENE  I. 

YOZVOVICH,  DRAGOMIR.    The  DOCTOR,  sitting  at  a  small 
table,  is  noting  in  a  catalogue  ;  DRAGOMIK  enters. 

DRAGOMIR.     I  come  to  take  farewell,  doctor. 

DOCTOR  (rises  suddenly}.     Ah  !  are  you  going  away  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     I  am. 

DOCTOR.     A  sudden  decision.     And  for  a  long  time  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  I  start  this  evening  for  Svetlenitse,  to  see 
Yerzy,  to-morrow  I  go  abroad. 

DOCTOR.  One  word  more.  Have  you  told  any  one  of 
this  plan  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  So  far  no  one  knows  of  it.  My  intention 
became  a  decision  only  a  couple  of  hours  ago. 

DOCTOR.     Is  it  irrevocable  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     Irrevocable. 

DOCTOR.     Then  not  even  Yerzy  knows  of  it  yet  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     Not  even  Yerzy.     Why  do  you  ask  ? 

DOCTOR  (aside).  It  has  come.  There  is  need  to  act 
quickly,  else  all  will  be  lost.  (Aloud.)  Count,  I  cannot 
speak  in  this  moment  at  length  with  you,  for  Antoni  is 
coming  with  an  affair  on  which  my  whole  future  depends. 
But  hear  me,  I  implore  you  in  the  name  of  the  peace  and 
health  of  the  Princess  not  to  mention  to  any  one  that  you 
are  going  away,  neither  to  her,  nor  to  Yerzy,  nor  to 
the  Prince. 

DRAGOMIR.     I  do  not  understand  you. 

DOCTOR.  You  will  understand  me.  At  this  moment  I 
cannot  say  more.  I  beg  for  a  little  time.  Half  an  hour 
hence,  give  me  a  moment's  conversation,  I  pray.  You  will 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  231 

understand  me,  I  assure  you.     But  here  is  Antoni     You 
see,  Count,  that  at  present  I  cannot  — 
DRAGOMIR.     Then  till  we  meet  again. 

SCENE  II. 
ANTONI,  DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH. 

ANTONI.  To-morrow  the  result  will  be  known.  It  is 
a  hot  affair.  Is  the  address  ready  ? 

DOCTOR.     Here  it  is.     And  how  are  things  going  ? 

ANTONI.  So  far,  everything  goes  well ;  but  I  tell  thee 
that  it  is  a  hot  affair.  If  thou  hadst  not  come  the  last 
time,  thou  wouldst  have  been  lost;  for  Milishevski  has 
withdrawn,  and  now  his  partisans  are  on  Husarski's 
side.  Thy  speech  in  the  city  hall  was  brilliant.  May  a 
thunderbolt  split  thee  !  To-day  we  will  give  thee  an  ova- 
tion. Even  thy  enemies  do  justice  to  thy  programme. 
Oh,  at  last  we  shall  come  to  have  a  voice  !  These  three 
days  I  sleep  not,  neither  do  I  eat,  I  only  work,  and  I 
have  time,  for  they  have  dismissed  me  from  office. 

DOCTOR.     Have  they  driven  thee  out  of  office  ? 

ANTONI.  For  agitation,  and  for  the  affair  with 
Husarski. 

DOCTOR.     Hast  found  means  against  him  ? 

ANTONI.  I  have  scratched  off  a  little  article.  I  will 
give  it  to  thee  —  here  it  is.  He  has  brought  a  suit 
against  me,  and  will  win.  They  will  put  me  in  prison ; 
but  the  action  will  end  only  after  election,  while  the 
article  will  hurt  him  before  election. 

DOCTOR.     Well ! 

ANTONI.  But  when  I  shall  be  sitting  in  prison,  think 
of  my  wife  and  children.  I  love  my  little  boys  im- 
mensely. I  have  a  few  too  many  of  them ;  but  nature  is 
a  hard  law. 


232  ON   A    SINGLE   CARD. 

DOCTOR.     Be  at  rest. 

ANTONI.  Thou  wouldst  not  believe,  but  I  am  almost 
happy.  At  times  it  seems  to  me  that  our  province  is  a 
cabin  with  foul  air,  and  that  I  open  the  window  and  let 
in  a  fresh  breeze.  We  will  work,  even  if  we  have  to  wear 
off  our  arms  to  the  elbows.  I  believe  in  thee,  for  thou  art 
a  monster  made  of  iron.  As  God  is  true,  thou  hadst 
taken  possession  of  us  before  we  saw  it. 

DOCTOR.     I  shall  die,  or  gain  two  victories. 

ANTONI.     Two  ? 

DOCTOR.  Yes,  and  the  other  even  here  to-day. 
Events  have  anticipated  me  in  some  measure.  Facts 
turned  against  me.  I  had  to  frame  my  plan  of  action 
quickly,  a  moment  ago. 

ANTONI.  Ei !  if  we  can  only  win  there.  Knowest 
thou,  lord  leader  of  our  party,  I  would  rather  thou  threw 
the  other  victory  to  the  deuce. 

DOCTOR.     In  this  thou  art  mistaken,  Antoni. 

ANTONI.  Thou  grievest;  thou  sufferest;  thou  hast 
grown  thin.  Look  in  the  mirror  !  What  a  face  ! 

DOCTOR.  That  is  no  harm ;  when  I  spring  the  mine 
here  I  shall  be  calmer,  and  the  mine  is  now  ready. 

ANTONI.     But  it  will  cost  thee  something. 

DOCTOR.     Still  I  shall  not  go  back. 

ANTONI.  Deuce  take  it !  But  do  not  blacken  thy 
hands  too  much  with  the  powder. 

SCENE  III. 
The  same,  STELLA. 

STELLA  (entering,  sees  ANTONI).     Ah,  I  beg  pardon  I 
DOCTOR.     Pan  Antoni  Juk,  my  friend.     (ANTONI  lows.) 
What  do  you  command,  Princess  ? 

STELLA.     You  prescribed  the  bed ;  but  it  is  so  hard  to 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  233 

lie  down.  Pani  Cheski  went  to  the  chapel,  so  I  fled.  Do 
you  permit  ? 

DOCTOR.  What  am  I  to  do,  Princess,  though  I  might 
have  the  wish  to  scold  a  disobedient  child.  Not  long 
since  some  one  else  interceded  for  you. 

STELLA.     Who  was  that  ? 

DOCTOR.  Count  Dragomir;  and  he  begged  so  that  I 
promised  to  let  you  rise  in  an  hour.  He  wishes  to  talk 
with  you  to-day,  I  believe,  even  later,  as  he  cannot  — 

STELLA  (aside).     What  does  this  mean  ? 

DOCTOR.  About  five,  that  is  an  hour  from  now,  he  will 
be  here. 

STELLA.     Very  well. 

DOCTOR.  Now  I  beg  that  you  will  return  to  your  own 
room,  for  you  are  lightly  dressed.  [She  goes  out. 

SCENE  IV. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  ANTONI. 

ANTONI.  Ah,  that  is  the  Princess  then.  I  saw  her  for 
the  first  time. 

DOCTOR.     Yes,  that  is  she. 

ANTONI.  Very  shapely.  But  somehow  as  if  made  of 
mist.  I  prefer  women  like  my  wife.  From  the  Princess 
thou  wilt  not  get  sturdy  democrats. 

DOCTOR.     Enough  of  this. 

ANTONI.  So  I  weigh  anchor  and  sail.  I  will  scatter 
thy  address  to-day,  and  at  the  same  time  another  stiff 
article  on  Husarski.  If  they  are  to  put  me  in  prison,  let 
people  know  why.  Be  well ! 

DOCTOR.  And  when  thou  shalt  meet  the  servant,  tell 
him  that  I  am  waiting  for  Count  Dragomir. 


234  ON  A  SINGLE   CARD. 

SCENE  V. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  later,  DRAGOMIR. 

DOCTOR.  Then  let  this  golden-haired  page  go  away, 
but  let  him  take  farewell  of  her.  That  farewell  will  be  a 
red  rag  for  the  bull.  (DRAGOMIR  enters.)  I  am  waiting 
for  you.  Is  Pretvits  here  ? 

DRAGOMIR.    He  is  with  the  Prince. 

DOCTOR.     Sit  down,  Count ;  let  us  talk. 

DRAGOMIR  (unquietly).     I  listen. 

DOCTOR.     Do  you  love  the  Princess  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     Pan  Yozvovich ! 

DOCTOR.     On  your  honor,  —  yes  or  no. 

DRAGOMIR.  God  might  have  the  right  to  ask  me  a 
question  which  I  dare  not  ask  myself. 

DOCTOR.     And  your  conscience. 

DRAGOMIR.     And  no  one  else. 

DOCTOR.     Then  in  another  way  !    And  she  loves  you. 

DRAGOMIR.     Be  silent !     0  great  God ! 

DOCTOR.     Pride  is  broken  !     You  knew  of  this  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     No,  I  did  not  wish  to  know. 

DOCTOR.     You  know  now. 

DRAGOMIR.     I  am  going  away  forever. 

DOCTOR.  Too  late,  Count!  You  have  involved  her 
life,  and  now  you  are  leaving  her. 

DRAGOMIR.     But  what  am  I  to  do  ?     In  God's  name  ! 

DOCTOR.  Go  away,  but  not  for  good,  and  not  without 
taking  leave. 

DRAGOMIR.  Why  add  another  drop  to  the  overflowing 
cup? 

DOCTOR.  A  pretty  phrase  !  Do  you  not  understand 
what  people  will  think  of  her  here,  if  you  go  away  sud- 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  235 

denly,  without  farewell,  without  return.  Besides,  she  is 
ill,  and  may  not  survive  your  departure. 

DRAGOMIR.     I  see  no  escape. 

DOCTOR.  There  is  only  one.  Find  an  occasion ;  take 
farewell  of  her  calmly,  and  say  that  you  will  return. 
Otherwise  the  blow  may  exceed  her  strength.  You  must 
leave  her  hope.  She  ought  not  to  suspect  anything. 
Afterward  she  may  grow  used  to  your  absence,  then 
forget  it. 

DRAGOMIR.     Better  let  her  forget  it. 

DOCTOR.  I  shall  use  all  my  efforts  to  bring  that 
about.  I  shall  be  the  first  one  to  throw  a  handful  of 
dust  on  your  memory. 

DRAGOMIR.     What  am  I  to  do,  then  ? 

DOCTOR.  Find  a  cause  for  taking  farewell,  mention 
your  return  to  all,  and  go  away.  Yerzy  also  is"  not  to 
know  of  anything. 

DRAGOMIR.     When  am  I  to  take  farewell  of  her  ? 

DOCTOR.  In  a  little  while.  I  have  forewarned  her.  I 
shall  occupy  Pretvits  while  you  are  with  her.  He  will 
come  here  soon. 

DRAGOMIR.  All  is  so  arranging  itself  that  I  would 
rather  have  a  ball  in  my  heart. 

DOCTOR.  No  one  is  sure  of  his  to-morrow.  Go  now. 

[DRAGOMIR  goes  out. 

SCENE  VI. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  later,  the  SERVANT. 

DOCTOR.  How  hot  it  is  here,  my  head  is  splitting! 
(Rings,  SERVANT  enters.)  Ask  Pan  Pretvits  here  immedi- 
ately. (SERVANT  goes  out.)  My  head  is  splitting,  but 
afterward  there  will  be  a  long  rest. 


236  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 


SCENE  VIT. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  YERZY. 

YERZY  (entering).     What  didst  them  wish  of  me  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  wish  to  give  thee  some  advice  touching 
the  Princess's  health. 

YERZY.     How  is  she  now  ? 

DOCTOR.  Better.  I  have  permitted  her  to  rise  now, 
for  she  and  Dragomir  begged  me  to  do  so. 

YERZY.     And  Dragomir  ? 

DOCTOR.  Yes.  He  wishes  to  talk  with  her.  They  are 
to  come  in  here  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  now. 

YERZY.  Doctor,  rage  and  pain  are  suffocating  me. 
Dragomir  avoids  me. 

DOCTOR.     But  still  thou  dost  not  suspect  him. 

YERZY.  I  swear  that  I  have  warded  off  suspicions  as 
a  dying  man  keeps  off  crows ;  that  I  have  gnawed  my 
hands  from  pain  and  despair.  I  ward  them  off  yet ;  but  I 
cannot  do  so  longer.  I  cannot.  Reality  strikes  me  on 
the  head  with  the  back  of  a  hatchet.  He  avoids  me,  he 
By  the  mercy  of  God  !  tell  me  that  I  am  fool,  that  I 
have  lost  my  senses,  for  everything  is  breaking  in  me. 

DOCTOR.  Restrain  thyself.  Even  if  he  has  loved  the 
Princess,  no  man  controls  his  own  heart. 

YERZY.  Enough,  enough  !  Thou  wert  right  in  joining 
his  name  the  first  time  with  hers.  I  rejected  the  thought 
then,  but  it  has  lived  here !  (Striking  his  breast.}  The 
grain  is  ripe  now.  Oh,  what  a  terrible  and  ridiculous 
role  I  have  played,  till  reality  convinced  me  — 

DOCTOR.     But  he  saved  thy  life. 

YERZY.  To  take  it  when  it  began  to  have  value.  It 
is  paid  for  already,  paid  for  with  torment,  murdered 
happiness,  broken  hope,  faith  in  him  destroyed,  in  my- 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  237 

self,  in  her.  And  knowest  thou  how  many  days  and 
nights  have  passed ;  how  I  repress  in  myself  the  shriek  of 
pure  despair. 

DOCTOR.     Calm  thyself. 

YERZY.  I  loved  that  man.  Tell  me  am  I  a  maniac  ? 
But  I  will  calm  myself.  Still  how  dreadful  that  it 
should  be  just  he.  My  reason  is  at  an  end,  my  powers 
are  at  an  end ;  but  misfortune  continues.  Think  that  it 
should  be  just  he.  Forgive  me  all  that  I  said  before  to 
thee,  and  save  me ;  evil  thoughts  are  coming  to  my 
head. 

DOCTOR.     Calm  thyself,  thou  art  mistaken. 

YERZY.  Show  me  that  I  am  mistaken,  and  I  will 
kneel  before  thee. 

DOCTOR.     Thou  art  mistaken.    Dragoinir  is  going  away. 

YERZY.  He  is  going  away !  (A  moment  of  silence.) 
Then  I  can  live  still  like  every  man,  not  in  torture,  and 
have  hope  ? 

DOCTOR  (coldly  and  slowly}.  He  is  not  going  away,  it 
is  true,  for  good.  He  said  that  he  would  return  soon. 

YERZY.     Again  thou  art  fastening  me  to  the  cross. 

DOCTOR.  Collect  presence  of  mind,  and  do  not  let 
thyself  be  carried  to  madness.  In  every  case  thou  wilt 
gain  time.  If  he  has  shaken  thy  place  in  the  heart  of 
the  Princess,  thou  canst  win  back  what  is  lost. 

YERZY.     No !     It  is  all  over !    I  will  go  into  the  abyss. 

DOCTOR.     Everything  may  be  settled  by  his  departure. 

YERZY  (with  an  outburst).  But  thou  hast  said  that 
he  will  return. 

DOCTOR  (with  power).  Listen,  I  will  agree  that  thou 
hast  paid  Dragomir  for  thy  life  with  suffering.  Dragomir 
has  betrayed  and  broken  friendship  by  taking  her  heart 
from  thee ;  but  I  reject  the  thought  that  he  is  going  away 
to  save  his  person  from  thy  revenge. 


238  ON  A   SINGLE   CAED. 

YEKZY.  But  to  give  her  time  to  break  with  me ! 
That  is  it !  So  I  am  cursed  already  to  the  hour  of  death ; 
I  will  suspect  him  now  of  everything.  He  is  fleeing 
from  me. 

DOCTOR.     Yerzy ! 

YERZY.  May  God  forgive  me  if  something  terrible 
happens  here  to  Dragomir. 

DOCTOK.     Poor  Yerzy ! 

YERZY.  Enough,  enough !  I  will  go  to  ask  him  when 
he  returns.  He  saved  me  one  life  and  killed  ten. 

[Wishes  to  go  out. 

DOCTOR.     Where  art  thou  going? 

YERZY.     To  ask  him  how  long  he  will  be  gone. 

DOCTOR.  One  moment.  Of  what  dost  thou  wish  to 
ask,  madman  ?  He  may  be  innocent ;  but  pride  will 
close  his  lips  and  destroy  both  of  you.  Stay  here,  thou 
wilt  pass  only  over  my  corpse.  I  am  not  afraid  of  thee  — 
dost  understand !  In  a  moment  they  are  to  talk  here. 
If  thou  need  proofs,  thou  shalt  have  them.  From  the 
garden  porch  thou  wilt  not  hear,  but  thou  wilt  see  them ; 
thou  wilt  convince  thyself  with  thy  own  eyes,  and 
perhaps  regret  violent  words. 

YERZY  (after  a  while).  Agreed !  that  is  well.  0 
God  grant  that  there  is  no  fault  there!  I  thank  thee, 
but  do  not  leave  me  now. 

DOCTOR.  One  word  more :  Whatever  happens,  it  would 
be  contemptible  if  thou  shouldst  endanger  her  life  with 
an  outburst. 

YERZY.     Agreed,  let  us  go. 

DOCTOR.     They  will  be  here  alone. 

YERZY.  I  shall  correct  everything  yet.  Whither  shall 
we  go  ? 

DOCTOR.     To  the  garden  porch. 

YERZY.     May  God  have  mercy  on  me,  and  on  them. 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  239 

DOCTOR.  You  are  feverish.  You  are  trembling  already 
as  in  a  fever. 

YERZY.  I  will  stuff  my  mouth  with  a  handkerchief. 
Then  from  the  porch  — 

DOCTOR.     Yes,  among  the  cypresses. 

YERZY.  I  lack  breath.  Some  one  is  coming.  Let  us 
go  out. 

SCENE  VIII. 
DRAGOMIR,  then,  STELLA. 

DRAGOMIR.  The  last  evening,  and  the  last  time.  (After 
a  while.}  Let  the  will  of  God  be  done:  let  all  suf- 
fering fall  on  me. 

STELLA  (enters).  The  doctor  told  me  that  you  wished 
to  see  me. 

DRAGOMIR.  Yes,  important  reasons  call  me  home  for 
a  time.  I  have  come  to  take  farewell  of  you. 

STELLA.     To  take  farewell  ? 

DRAGOMIR.  To-day  I  go  to  Svetlenitse,  and  to-morrow 
farther.  (A  moment  of  silence) 

STELLA.     So,  it  is  necessary. 

DRAGOMIR.  Life  has  passed  like  a  dream  here ;  it  is 
time  to  wake  up. 

STELLA.  But  you  say  that  we  shall  see  each  other 
again  ? 

DRAGOMIR.    If  God  permits. 

STELLA.  Then  I  give  you  my  hand  in  parting,  and 
with  it  eternal  friendship.  Friendship,  like  an  immortelle, 
is  a  pale  flower,  but  it  never  withers.  May  God  conduct 
and  guard  you.  The  heart  of  a  sister  will  go  with  you 
everywhere,  I  beg  you  to  remember  — 

DRAGOMIR.     I  take  farewell  of  you. 

STELLA.     I  take  farewell  of  you  as  if  forever.    (She  goes 


240  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

away  and  then  returns  with  tears  in  her  voice.}  Count, 
why  do  you  deceive  me,  you  are  going  away  forever. 

DRAGOMIR.     Have  pity  on  me  ! 

STELLA.     You  are  going  away  forever  ? 

DRAGOMIR.     Yes,  it  is  true. 

STELLA.  I  divined  that.  But  perhaps  it  is  better  for 
us  both. 

DRAGOMIR.  Oh,  yes,  there  are  things  which  cannot  be 
told,  though  the  heart  should  be  rent.  A  moment  ago 
you  said  that  you  would  remember  me ;  recall  that  gift, 
forget. 

STELLA.     I  shall  not  be  able.     (She  bursts  into  tears.') 

DRAGOMIR.  Then  I  love  thee,  angel,  as  if  mad,  and 
that  is  why  I  flee  from  thee  and  from  myself.  (Represses 
her  to  his  breast.') 

STELLA  (wakening).     0  God !  [She  runs  away. 

SCENE  IX. 

DRAGOMIR,  YOZVOVICH,  YERZY.    YERZY  stops  with 
the  DOCTOR  near  the  door. 

DRAGOMIR.     Ah  !  is  that  thou,  Yerzy  ? 

YERZY.  Do  not  approach  me.  I  saw  all !  Thou  art 
contemptible  and  a  coward! 

DRAGOMIR.     Yerzy ! 

YERZY.  Broken  friendship,  trampled  happiness,  lost 
faith  in  God  and  man,  perfect  contempt  for  thee  and 
myself,  —  these  I  cast,  in  thy  face,  so  as  not  to  soil  my 
hands  by  slapping  it. 

-DRAGOMIR.     Enough! 

i          YERZY.     Do  not  approach  me,  or  I  shall  lose  presence 
of  mind  and  sprinkle  these  walls  with  thy  brains.     No  \ 
no !     I  do  not  want  that ;  I  have  promised.     I  slap  thee  I 
on  the  face,  contemptible  !     Dost  hear  ?  \ 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  241 

DRAGOMIR  (after  a  moments  struggle  with  himself}. 
Before  God  and  men,  I  declare  that  blood  will  wash  out 
such  words. 

YERZY.  Blood!  (Pointing  to  the  DOCTOR.)  Here  is  the 
witness  of  those  words. 

DOCTOR.     I  am  at  your  service,  gentlemen. 

(Curtain  falls.) 
END   OF   FOURTH   ACT. 


ACT   V. 

The  same  drawing-room. 

SCENE  I. 

DOCTOR  (enters  reading  a  despatch).  "  The  result  as 
far  as  known  :  Yozvovich,  613  votes ;  Husarski,  604.  Ten 
o'clock  :  Yozvovich,  700  ;  Husarski,  700.  Eleven  :  Yozvo- 
vich, 814 ;  Husarski,  750.  The  battle  an  obstinate  one. 
Final  result  will  be  known  about  three  o'clock."  (He 
looks  at  his  watch.) 

SCENE  II. 
YOZVOVICH,  YERZY. 

DOCTOR.     Thou  art  here  ! 

YERZY.     Thou  withdrawest  before  the  ghost  ? 

DOCTOR.     But  is  it  to-day  ? 

YERZY.  I  go  straight  from  here  to  the  place  of  meet- 
ing. I  have  one  hour  yet.  The  duel  will  be  in  Dom- 
brova  on  the  land  of  the  Milishevskis,  so  not  far  off. 

DOCTOR.     It  is  too  near. 

YERZY.  Milishevski,  as  second,  insisted.  Besides,  thou 
art  in  the  affair,  so  that  the  news  should  be  known  in 
this  house  as  late  as  possible. 

1G 


242  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

DOCTOE.  But  Doctor  Krytski  will  be  on  the  spot 
according  to  agreement. 

YERZY.     Yes. 

DOCTOR.  Beg  him  once  more  to  send  me  the  news 
immediately.  I  would  go  with  you,  but  I  must  be  here. 

YERZY.     Very  properly.     If  I  die  — 

DOCTOR.     Do  not  admit  that  in  advance. 

YERZY.  There  are  people  condemned  by  fate  at  birth, 
for  whom  the  only  ransom  is  death.  I  am  one  of  those. 
I  have  thought  over  everything  long  and  calmly.  God 
knows  that  I  fear  life  more  than  death.  There  is  no 
escape  for  me ;  even  should  I  survive  what  will  happen, 
tell  me,  what  awaits  me  if  I  kill  a  man  whom  she  loves  ? 
I  shall  live  without  her  and  be  cursed  by  her.  Dost 
know  that  when  I  think  of  my  position,  when  I  think 
of  what  has  happened,  it  seems  to  me  that  some  demon 
has  come  between  us,  and  so  involved  all  things,  that 
death  alone  can  straighten  them. 

DOCTOR.     A  duel  ends  frequently  in  maiming. 

YERZY.  I  gave  the  lie  to  Dragomir  cruelly,  and  such 
an  insult  is  not  washed  out  by  a  wound.  Believe  me  that 
one  of  us  must  die.  But  I  have  come  to  speak  of  some- 
thing else. 

DOCTOR.     I  hear  thee. 

YERZY.  To  tell  the  truth,  since  I  know  not  whether 
I  shall  be  alive  in  an  hour,  I  have  come  to  look  once 
more  on  her,  for  I  loved  her  above  everything  in  the 
world.  I  was  perhaps  too  abrupt  for  her,  too  unhappy, 
too  dull,  but  —  I  loved  her.  Then  let  God,  who  is  look- 
ing now  into  my  heart,  condemn  me  forever  if  I  did  not 
desire  her  happiness.  As  thou  seest  me  here  this 
moment,  I  am  grieved  most  because  of  her,  and  I  suffer 
greatly  when  I  think  of  her  future.  Listen  !  whether  I 
perish  or  not,  she  is  lost  to  me  ;  Dragomir  will  not  marry 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  243 

her,  for  he  cannot  marry  a  woman  whose  betrothed  he  has 
killed.  Of  us  three,  thou  alone  wilt  remain  near  her, 
guard  her,  watch  over  her.  She  was  the  only  treasure 
which  I  had  ;  I  give  her  into  thy  honest  hands. 

DOCTOR.     I  will  carry  out  all  thy  wishes. 

YERZY.     And  now,  since  I  may  die,  I  wish  to  die  as  a 

Christian.     If  thou  hast  any  feeling  against  me,  if  I  have 

been  to  blame  regarding  thee  at  any  time,  forgive  me ! 

\He  presses  the  DOCTOR'S  hand  and  goes  out. 

DOCTOR  (alone).  Yes !  Of  us  three,  I  alone  remain 
near  her. 

SCENE  III. 
ANTONI,  YOZVOVICH. 

ANTONI  (rushing  in  quickly}.  Man,  you  are  mad! 
Every  moment  there  is  precious,  and  thou  art  sitting 
here.  The  cause  is  trembling ;  new  hand-bills  are  posted 
up.  Husarski's  partisans  are  seizing  people  by  their 
coats.  In  God's  name  come  with  me!  A  drosky  is 
waiting  below.  Why  art  thou  sitting  here  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  must  stay  here.  I  will  not  go  for  any- 
thing on  earth  ;  I  will  not  go,  let  happen  what  may. 

ANTONI.  But  I  swear,  if  I  expected  this  !  Show  thy- 
self even  for  a  moment,  and  thou  wilt  win  surely  !  Lungs 
and  voice  are  gone  from  me.  Art  thou  mad?  There 
they  are  working  for  him,  and  shouting  for  him,  and  this 
man  is  clinging  to  a  petticoat,  and  sitting  here.  "We  are 
choosing  a  pretty  deputy ! 

DOCTOR.  Antoni !  Even  though  the  election  were  to 
be  lost,  I  would  not  move  a  step.  I  cannot,  I  will  not  go ! 

ANTONI.     Is  this  true  ? 

DOCTOR.     It  is ! 

ANTONI.  Well,  do  what  may  please  thee.  Well!  I 
wish  —  (He  walks  through  the  room,  after  a  while  puts  his 


244  ON   A   SINGLE   CARD. 

hands  in  his  pockets,  and  stands  before  the  DOCTOR.)  Well, 
what  does  this  mean  ? 

DOCTOK.  It  means  that  I  must  be  here.  At  this 
moment  Dragomir  and  Pretvits  are  face  to  face  with 
arms  in  their  hands.  If  news  should  reach  the  Princess, 
she  might  pay  for  it  with  her  life. 

ANTONI.     Are  they  shooting  ? 

DOCTOR.  For  life  and  death.  News  will  be  here  in  a 
moment  telling  which  of  the  two  is  dead. 

ANTONI.     Yozvovich,  who  did  this  ? 

DOCTOR.  I!  I  crushed  those  who  stood  in  my  road, 
and  I  shall  crush  them  always.  Thou  seest  me  as  I  am. 

ANTONI.  Well,  if  that  is  so,  neither  am  I  in  a  hurry. 
Dost  thou  know  what  I  will  say  ? 

DOCTOR.  Withdraw  for  a  while ;  the  Princess  is  coming. 
(He  opens  the  door  of  a,  side  chamber.*)  Go  in  there. 

SCENE  IV. 
YOZVOVICH,  STELLA. 

STELLA.     My  doctor,  what  is  happening  in  this  house  ? 

DOCTOR.     Of  what  do  you  ask,  Princess  ? 

STELLA.  Pan  Yerzy  came  to  me  somehow  excited ;  he 
took  farewell  of  me,  begged  me  to  forgive  him  if  he  had 
ever  offended  me  — 

DOCTOR  (aside').     Sentimental  fool ! 

STELLA.  He  told  me  that  he  might  be  forced  to  go 
away  for  a  number  of  days.  I  have  the  feeling  that  you 
are  hiding  something  from  me.  What  does  this  mean, 
doctor?  Do  not  torture  me  longer.  I  am  so  weak 
already  that,  in  truth,  it  is  proper  to  have  a  little  pity 
on  me. 

DOCTOR.  Be  not  concerned.  What  could  happen? 
Pure  imagination.  The  care  of  tender  hearts  surrounds 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  245 

you.  Whence  could  such  a  strange  supposition  come  ? 
Go  now  to  your  own  room,  and  receive  nobody.  I  will 
come  soon. 

STELLA.     Then  there  is  really  no  trouble,  doctor  ? 

DOCTOR.  And  what  is  this  again !  I  beg  you  to  be- 
lieve that  I  should  be  able  to  set  aside  everything  which 
might  threaten  your  happiness. 

STELLA  (giving  him  her  hand).  Oh,  Pan  Stanislav,  hap- 
piness is  too  difficult  a  thing ;  but  let  peace  not  desert  us. 

[She  wishes  to  go  out  through  the  room  where  ANTON  I  is. 

DOCTOR.  This  way,  Princess.  In  that  room  a  man  is 
waiting  for  me.  I  will  come  to  you  soon.  Eeceive  no 
one,  I  beg  you.  Antoni!  [PRINCESS  goes  out. 

SCENE  V. 
ANTONI,  DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  afterwards,  SERVANT. 

ANTONI.     Poor,  poor  child ! 

DOCTOR.  For  her  sake  I  cannot  go  away.  I  must  be 
here  and  not  let  news  of  the  misfortune  reach  her,  that 
might  kill  her. 

ANTONI.  How  ?  —  knowing  this,  thou  art  exposing  her  ? 
Thou  lovest  her,  and  art  sacrificing  her  to  thyself  ? 

DOCTOR  (feverishly).  I  love  her  and  must  have  her, 
even  if  this  house  were  to  fall  on  our  heads. 

ANTONI.  Man,  thou  art  speaking  like  one  who  has 
lost  his  mind. 

DOCTOR.  Man,  thou  speakest  like  an  incompetent,  not 
like  a  man.  Thou  hast  a  mouthful  of  phrases  and  strength, 
but  knowest  not  how  to  look  facts  in  the  eyes.  Who 
dares  say  to  me,  "Thou  hast  not  the  right  to  defend 
thyself "  ? 

ANTONI.     Farewell ! 

DOCTOR.     Where  art  thou  going  ? 


246  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

ANTONI.     I  return  to  the  city. 

DOCTOR.  Art  thou  with  me,  or  against  me  ?  I  am  an 
honest  man. 

SEKVANT  (enters).  A  messenger  has  brought  a  letter 
from  Milishevski. 

DOCTOE.  Give  it  here  !  (SEKVANT  goes  out ;  he  breaks 
the  seal  and  reads.)  "  The  duel  has  taken  place.  Pretvits 
is  no  longer  living."  (After  a  while.)  Ah  !  — 

ANTONI.  Before  I  go,  I  owe  thee  an  answer,  for  thou 
hast  inquired  what  my  going  means.  I  have  served  thee 
as  faithfully  as  a  dog,  for  I  believed  in  thee.  Thou  hast 
known  how  to  use,  and  perhaps  to  abuse  me.  I  knew 
that  I  was  a  tool,  but  I  care  not  for  such  things ;  still 
nowr  — 

DOCTOR.     Now  thou  wilt  leave  the  cause  ? 

ANTONI.  Thou  dost  not  know  me.  What  should  I  do 
in  the  world  if  I  were  to  desert  it  ?  And  finally  dost  thou 
think  that  thou  alone  art  the  cause  ?  I  will  not  leave 
the  cause  because  I  was  deceived  in  thee.  But  for  me,  it 
is  a  question  of  something  else.  I  was  so  foolish  as  to 
attach  myself  to  thee,  and  now  I  am  sorry;  for  as  a 
private  man,  I  must  tell  thee,  thou  hast  exceeded  the 
measure,  thou  hast  used  for  evil  the  power  which  is  in 
thee.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,  perhaps  for  me  it  would  be 
more  profitable  not  to  say  this  to  thee.  Perhaps  to  cling 
to  thee  would  be  a  future  for  a  ragged  man  like  me,  who 
has  not  very  much  at  home  to  give  wife  and  children 
to  eat.  But  I  cannot,  I  cannot !  I  am  naked,  and  naked 
I  shall  remain ;  let  me  have  at  least  a  clear  conscience. 
This  is  what  I  will  say :  Thou  wert  as  near  to  me  as  my 
wife  and  children,  nearer  too !  From  this  day  forward  thou 
art  only  a  political  figure ;  but  as  to  friendship,  seek  some 
one  else.  Know  that  I  am  not  particular ;  a  man  rubs 
against  people,  and  rubs  more  than  one  thing  into  him- 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  247 

self ;  but  thou  hast  exceeded  the  measure.  Hang  me,  if 
I  do  not  prefer  to  love  people  rather  than  crush  them. 
Men  say  that  honesty  and  politics  are  different.  Here 
and  there  it  may  be  so.  But  with  us  those  things  must 
be  connected.  Why  should  they  not  go  together?  I 
shall  not  desert  the  cause ;  but  there  is  an  end  to  the 
friendship  between  me  and  thee,  for  the  man  who  says 
that  he  loves  people,  and  lurks  and  strikes  them  on  the 
head  by  deceit,  is  a  liar,  dost  understand  ? 

DOCTOR.  I  shall  not  attract  thy  friendship  by  supe- 
rior force;  but  listen  to  me  for  the  last  time.  If  a  period 
of  defeats  begins  for  me,  it  will  begin  because  men  like 
thee  cease  to  understand  me.  Behold,  this  man  who 
has  died  went  suddenly,  blindly,  and  fatally  against  my 
success,  my  right  to  happiness,  my  future,  and  took  all 
from  me.  He  appeared  with  wealth,  a  name,  relatives, 
and  all  that  invincible  armor  which  fortune  and  birth 
give.  What  had  I  against  him  ?  With  what  could  I  do 
battle  ?  What  could  I  put  against  his  power  ?  Nothing, 
but  that  which  is  the  armor  of  new  men,  —  that  little 
intelligence  acquired  by  bloody  toil  and  effort.  He 
declared  a  silent  war  against  me.  I  defended  myself. 
With  what?  With  the  armor  which  nature  gave  me. 
When  thou  tramplest  a  worm,  do  not  take  it  ill  that  it 
defends  itself  with  a  sting,  for  it  has  nothing  else  with 
which  to  defend  itself.  When  thou  hast  to  remove  a 
stone  lying  in  the  way,  remove  it  as  may  please  thee. 
That  is  a  human  right !  Yes,  I  put  everything  on  a 
single  card,  and  I  won ;  but  it  was  not  I,  it  was  reason 
which  overcame  strength,  the  new  time  past  ages.  And 
thou  takest  that  ill  of  me  ?  What  is  thy  wish  ?  I 
am  true  to  my  principle ;  but  ye  draw  back,  I  do  not. 
That  is  one  side,  but  what  is  the  other  ?  That  woman 
was  necessary  to  me,  to  my  happiness ;  I  love  her,  for 


248  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

rny  plans,  for  her  property,  her  relations.  Give  me  such 
weapons,  and  I  will  accomplish  and  carry  out  every- 
thing !  Dost  understand  what  a  gigantic  labor,  what 
great  objects  and  plans  are  before  me  ?  Ye  wish  that  I 
should  break  the  wall  of  darkness,  hesitation,  sloth,  that 
I  should  breathe  life  into  that  which  is  withered ;  I  call 
for  means.  Ye  have  none !  Hence  I  will  get  them  or 
perish.  But  what  ?  One  little  noble,  one  pallid  knight, 
one  adventurer,  whose  only  service  is  that  he  was  born 
with  an  escutcheon,  stands  in  the  way  of  these  great 
plans,  of  that  bright  future,  not  only  for  me,  but  for 
society,  and  I  have  not  the  right  to  crush  hirn.  And  ye 
wish  that  I  should  fall  at  his  great,  mighty  feet,  that  I 
should  sacrifice  everything  to  him  ?  No,  ye  do  not  know 
me !  Enough  of  sentiment.  Strength  is  needed,  and  I 
have  it,  and  I  will  open  a  way  for  myself  and  others 
even  though  I  had  to  trample  a  hundred  Pretvitses. 

ANTONI.  No,  Yozvovich !  Thou  hast  always  done 
with  me  whatever  pleased  thee,  but  now  thou  wilt  not 
overcome  me.  While  it  was  a  question  of  convictions,  I 
was  with  thee ;  but  thou  hast  assaulted  certain  principles 
which  are  greater  than  thou  and  I,  and  more  enduring 
and  more  unchangeable.  Thou  wilt  not  explain  thy 
position  to  me,  and  have  a  care  for  thyself.  At  any 
slight  cause,  thou  wilt  fall  with  all  thy  energy.  Princi- 
ples change,  my  dear  man,  but  simple  honesty  is  always 
the  same.  Do  what  may  please  thee,  but  guard  thyself. 
What  the  deuce !  the  blood  of  men  is  avenged ;  that  is 
also  a  right  of  nature.  Thou  hast  asked  if  I  desert 
thee  ?  Perhaps  thou  wouldst  like  to  be  free  to  shoot 
people  from  behind  a  fence,  whenever  that  might  suit 
thee !  No,  brother !  Henceforth  begins  between  us  a 
close  account,  for  we  cannot  trust  thee.  Thou  wilt 
be  a  deputy ;  but  if  thou  thinkest  that  we  shall  serve 


ON  A   SINGLE   CARD.  249 

thee,  and  thou  not  us,  thou  art  mistaken.  What  hast 
thou  supposed,  that  the  rounds  of  this  ladder  on  which 
thou  art  climbing  is  made  up  of  rascals  ?  Halt  there ! 
We,  who  make  thee  a  deputy,  we,  in  whose  honesty 
thou  dost  not  believe,  perhaps,  will  watch  now  and 
judge  thee.  If  thou  do  mischief,  we  will  grind  thee  to 
dust.  The  cause  is  not  for  thee,  but  thou  art  for  the 
cause.  We  elected  thee,  now  serve. 

DOCTOR  (violently).     Andrei ! 

ANTONI.  Quietly !  In  the  evening  thou  wilt  stand 
before  the  electors  in  the  city.  Till  we  see  each  other, 
Doctor  Yozvovich  —  [Goes  out. 

DOCTOR  (alone).     He  is  the  first. 

SCENE  VI. 
DOCTOR  YOZVOVICH,  YAN  MILISHEVSKI. 

YAN  (appears  in  a  half -open  door).     Pst! 

DOCTOR.     Who  is  there  ? 

YAN.     I,  Milishevski.     Are  you  alone  ? 

DOCTOR.     Come  in  !     Well,  what  is  it  ? 

YAN.  It  is  finished.  Ah,  doctor,  he  did  not  live  five 
minutes !  I  commanded  to  take  the  body  to  Milishevo,  to 
the  church. 

DOCTOR.     But  your  mother  is  not  here  ? 

YAN.  I  sent  her  to  the  city.  This  is  election  day,  and 
mamma  does  not  know  that  I  have  withdrawn ;  so  she 
will  wait  for  the  evening  papers,  hoping  that  my  name 
will  be  among  the  elected. 

DOCTOR.     No  one  has  seen  him  on  the  road  ? 

YAN.  I  am  afraid  that  people  will  see  blood.  He 
bled  terribly  on  the  road. 

DOCTOR.     Strange  thing !     He  was  such  a  good  shot. 

YAN.     He   let   himself   be   killed    purposely.     I    was 


250  ON  A   SINGLE   CARD. 

there ;  I  saw  perfectly  that  he  did  not  put  his  finger  on 
the  trigger.  He  did  not  wish  to  kill  Dragomir.  Six 
steps,  such  a  close  mark !  Oh.  it  is  ghastly  to  look  at 
the  death  of  another  man !  In  truth,  I  would  rather 
have  died  myself.  They  fired  at  command :  one  !  two  ! 
three !  —  we  heard  a  shot,  but  only  one.  We  Hew  forward. 
Pretvits  advanced  two  steps  and  knelt ;  he  wanted  to 
speak,  but  blood  gushed  out  of  his  mouth ;  then  he  took 
his  pistol  and  fired  to  one  side.  We  were  already  stand- 
ing around,  and  he  said  to  Dragomir,  "  You  have  done 
me  a  favor,  I  thank  you.  This  life  belonged  to  you,  for 
you  saved  it.  Forgive  me  —  brother,"  said  he ;  "  give  me 
your  hand,"  and  he  began  to  die  —  (YAN  wipes  his  brow 
with  his  handkerchief.}  Dragomir  threw  himself  on 
Yerzy's  breast.  Oh,  doctor,  indeed  it  was  terrible !  Poor 
Princess  Stella,  what  will  become  of  her  now  ? 

DOCTOR.  For  God's  sake,  silence,  not  a  word  before 
her.  She  is  sick. 

YAN.     I  shall  be  silent. 

DOCTOR.     Master  your  emotion. 

YAN.  I  cannot  control  my  legs,  for  they  are  trembling 
under  me. 

SCENE  VII. 

The  same,  the  PRINCE,  leaning  on  STELLA'S  arm, 
PANI  CHESKI. 

PRINCE.  I  thought  that  Pretvits  was  here  with  you. 
Doctor,  where  is  Pretvits  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  know  not. 

STELLA.      Did  he  not  tell  you  where  he  was  going  ? 

DOCTOR.     I  know  not. 

PANI  CHESKI  (to  YAN).  What  is  the  matter,  Count, 
you  are  so  pale  ? 


ON   A   SINGLE   CARD.  251 

YAN.     Not  at  all,  that  is  from  fever. 
PRINCE.     Doctor,  Pretvits  told  me  — 

SCENE  VIII. 
The  door  opens  suddenly;  COUNTESS  MILISHEVSKI  rushes  in. 

COUNTESS.  Jean  !  where  is  my  Jean  ?  O  God,  what 
is  happening !  What  a  ghastliness  ! 

DOCTOR  (running  up  to  her  quickly}.   Be  silent,  Countess. 

STELLA.     What  has  happened  ? 

COUNTESS.  Then  it  was  not  thou  who  killed  Pretvits  ? 
It  was  not  thou  who  fought  the  duel  ? 

DOCTOR.     Silence,  Countess. 

STELLA.     Who  is  killed  ? 

COUNTESS.  Then  was  it  Dragomir?  Stella  dear, 
Dragomir  has  killed  Pretvits. 

STELLA.  Killed  1  O  God !  0  God  !  What  has  hap- 
pened ? 

DOCTOR.     Princess,  this  is  not  true ! 

STELLA.     Killed  ?     (She  staggers  and  falls.) 

DOCTOR.  She  has  fainted.  Let  us  carry  her  to  her 
chamber. 

PRINCE.    My  child ! 

PANI  CHESKI.     Stella  dear ! 

[The  PRINCE  and  DOCTOR  carry  STELLA  out;  the 
COUNTESS  and  PANI  CHESKI  follow  them. 

YAN  (alone}.  Oh,  this  is  ghastly  !  I  sent  mother  pur- 
posely to  the  city ;  who  could  have  expected  that  she 
would  return  ?  (The  COUNTESS  appears  in  the  door.) 
Mamma,  how  is  the  Princess  ? 

COUNTESS.  The  doctor  is  examining  her.  She  has 
not  regained  consciousness.  Jean,  let  us  go  from  here. 

YAN  (in  despair).  I  will  not  go  from  here.  Why  did 
you  come  hack  from  the  city  ? 


252  ON  A   SINGLE  CARD. 

COUNTESS.  For  thee.  This  is  election  day,  hast 
forgotten  ? 

YAN.  I  have  no  wish  to  be  a  deputy !  Why  did 
mamma  tell  of  Pretvits'  death  ? 

SCENE  IX. 
The  same,  YOZVOVICH. 

THE  COUNTESS  and  YAN  (together).  What  has  hap- 
pened there  ?  What  ? 

DOCTOR.  There  is  nothing  more  to  be  done,  all  is 
over!  (They  are  ringing  the  chapel  bell.) 

YAN  (in  terror).     What  is  this  ?     Ringing  the  chapel 
bell! 
(YozvoviCH  comes  to  the  front  of  the  stage  and  sits  down.) 

SCENE  X. 
The  same,  PODCHASKI. 

PODCHASKI  (rushes  in  on  a  sudden).  Victory  along  the 
whole  line !  The  deputation  is  here  1  ( Voices  behind  the 
stage.  "  Long  life  to  him  !  "  "  Long  life  to  him  ! ")  He 
has  won  !  Long  life  to  him  ! 

DOCTOR.     I  have  lost  dreadfully. 

END. 


YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN. 


YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN. 

IT  came  into  the  world  frail,  weak.     The  gossips,  who 
had  gathered  around   the   plank   bed  of   the  sick 
woman,  shook  their  heads  over  mother  and  child.     The 
wife  of  Simon  the  blacksmith,  who  was  the  wisest  among 
them,  began  to  console  the  sick  woman. 

"  Let  me,"  said  she,  "  light  a  blessed  candle  above  you. 
Nothing  will  come  of  you,  my  gossip  ;  you  must  prepare 
for  the  other  world  now,  and  send  for  the  priest  to 
absolve  you  from  your  sins." 

"  Yes ! "  said  another,  "  but  the  boy  must  be  christened 
this  minute :  he  cannot  wait  for  the  priest.  It  is  well 
even  to  stop  him  from  becoming  a  vampire." 

So  saying,  she  lighted  the  blessed  candle,  and  taking 
the  child  sprinkled  him  with  water  till  his  eyes  blinked ; 
and  then  she  said,  — 

"  I  baptize  thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost.  I  give  thee  Yan  as  name ;  and  now,  Chris- 
tian soul,  go  to  the  place  whence  thou  earnest.  Amen  1 " 
But  the  Christian  soul  had  no  wish  whatever  to  go  to 
the  place  whence  it  came  and  leave  its  lean  little  body. 
It  began  to  kick  with  the  legs  of  that  body  as  far  as  it 
was  able,  and  to  cry,  though  so  weakly  and  pitifully  that, 
as  the  gossips  said,  "  One  would  think  't  is  a  kitten  ;  't  is 
not  a  kitten,  —  what  is  it  ? " 

They  sent  for  the  priest ;  he  came,  he  did  his  duty,  he 

went  his  way,  —  the  sick  woman  grew  better.     In  a  week 

she  went  out  to  her  work.     The  little  boy  barely  "  puled," 

—  still,  he  puled  on  till  in  the  fourth  year  the  cuckoo 


256  YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN. 

brought  him  sickness  in  spring;  but,  he  recovered,  and 
with  some  kind  of  health  reached  the  tenth  year  of  his 
life. 

He  was  always  lean  and  sunburnt,  with  bloated  stomach 
and  sunken  cheeks ;  he  had  a  forelock  of  hemp  color 
almost  white  and  falling  over  clear,  staring  eyes,  which 
looked  at  the  world  as  if  gazing  into  some  immense  dis- 
tance. In  winter  he  used  to  sit  behind  the  stove  and  cry 
silently  from  cold,  and  from  hunger  too,  at  times  when  his 
mother  had  nothing  to  put  into  the  stove  or  the  pot.  Dur- 
ing summer  he  went  around  in  a  shirt,  with  a  strip  of  cloth 
for  a  belt,  and  a  straw  hat,  from  beneath  the  torn  brim 
of  which  he  looked  with  head  peering  upward  like  a  bird. 
His  mother,  a  poor  lodger,  living  from  day  to  day,  like  a 
sparrow  under  a  stranger's  roof,  loved  him  perhaps  in  her 
own  way ;  but  she  flogged  him  often  enough  and  called 
him  "  giddy-head  "  generally.  In  the  eighth  year  of  his  life 
he  went  to  herd  cattle,  or,  when  there  was  nothing  to  eat 
in  the  cottage,  to  the  pine  woods  for  mushrooms.  It  was 
through  the  compassion  of  God  that  a  wolf  did  not  eat 
him. 

He  was  a  very  dull  little  fellow,  and,  like  village  chil- 
dren, when  spoken  to  put  his  finger  in  his  mouth.  People 
did  not  even  promise  that  he  would  grow  up,  and  still  less 
that  his  mother  could  expect  any  good  from  him,  for  he 
was  a  poor  hand  at  work.  It  is  unknown  whence  such 
a  creature  could  have  come ;  but  he  was  eager  for  one 
thing,  music.  He  listened  to  it  everywhere,  and  when 
he  had  grown  up  a  little  he  thought  of  nothing  else. 
He  would  go  to  the  woods  for  the  cattle,  or  with  a  two- 
handled  basket  for  berries,  but  would  come  home  without 
berries  and  say,  stammering,  — 

"  Mamma,  something  was  playing  in  the  woods.  Oi ! 
oil" 


YANKO  THE   MUSICIAN.  257 

And  the  mother  would  say,  "  I  '11  play  for  thee,  never 
fear!" 

And  in  fact  she  made  music  for  him,  sometimes  with 
the  poker.  The  boy  screamed  and  promised  that  he 
would  not  do  it  again,  and  still  he  was  thinking,  "  Some- 
thing is  playing  out  there  in  the  woods."  What  was  it,  — 
did  he  know  ?  Pines,  beeches,  golden  orioles,  all  were 
playing,  —  the  whole  forest  was  playing,  and  that  was 
the  end  of  it ! 

The  echo,  too !  In  the  field  the  artemisia  played  for 
him  ;  in  the  garden  near,  the  sparrows  twittered  till  the 
cherry-trees  were  trembling.  In  the  evening  he  heard  all 
the  voices  that  were  in  the  village,  and  thought  to  him- 
self that  surely  the  whole  village  was  playing.  When 
they  sent  him  to  work  to  spread  manure,  even  then  the 
wind  played  on  the  fork-tines. 

The  overseer  caught  him  once  standing  with  dishevelled 
forelock  and  listening  to  the  wind  on  the  wooden  tines  ; 
he  looked  at  the  little  fellow,  unbuckled  his  own  leather 
belt,  and  gave  him  a  good  keepsake.  But  what  use  in 
that  ?  People  called  the  boy  "  Yanko  the  musician."  In 
the  springtime  he  ran  away  from  the  house  to  make 
whistles  near  the  river.  In  the  night,  when  the  frogs 
were  croaking,  the  land-rail  calling  in  the  meadows,  the 
bittern  screaming  in  the  dew,  the  cocks  crowing  behind 
the  wicker  fences,  he  could  not  sleep,  —  he  did  nothing 
but  listen ;  and  God  alone  knows  what  he  heard  in  that 
playing.  His  mother  could  not  take  him  to  church,  for 
as  soon  as  the  organ  began  to  roar  or  the  choir  sang  in 
sweet  voices,  the  child's  eyes  were  covered  with  mist,  and 
were  as  if  not  looking  forth  out  of  this  world. 

The  village  policeman  who  walked  through  the  place  at 
night  and  counted  stars  in  the  sky  to  keep  from  sleeping, 
or  conversed  in  a  low  voice  with  the  dogs,  saw  more  than 

17 


258  YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN. 

once  the  white  shirt  of  Yanko  stealing  along  in  the  dark 
toward  the  public  house.  But  the  boy  was  not  going  to 
the  public  house,  only  to  a  spot  near  it.  There  he  would 
cower  at  the  wall  and  listen.  The  people  were  dancing 
the  obertas ;  at  times  some  young  fellow  would  cry, 
"  U-ha  !  "  The  stamping  of  boots  was  heard ;  then  the 
querying  voices  of  girls,  "  What  ?  "  The  fiddles  sang  in 
low  tones,  "We  will  eat,  we  will  drink,  we  shall  be 
merry ; "  and  the  bass  viol  accompanied  in  a  deep  voice, 
with  importance,  "  As  God  gave  !  As  God  gave  ! "  The 
windows  were  gleaming  with  life,  and  every  beam  in  the 
house  seemed  to  tremble,  singing  and  playing  also ;  but 
Yanko  was  listening. 

How  much  would  he  give  to  have  such  a  fiddle  playing 
thinly,  "  We  will  eat,  we  will  drink  and  be  merry " ! 
Such  singing  bits  of  wood !  But  from  what  place  could 
he  get  them,  —  where  were  they  made  ?  If  some  one 
would  just  let  him  hold  such  a  thing  in  his  hand  even 
once  !  How  could  that  be  ?  He  was  only  free  to  listen, 
and  then  to  listen  only  till  the  voice  of  the  watchman 
was  heard  behind  him  in  the  darkness,  — 

"  Wilt  thou  go  home,  little  devil  ? " 

Then  he  fled  away  home  in  his  bare  feet,  but  in  the 
darkness  behind  him  ran  the  voice  of  the  fiddle,  "We 
will  eat,  we  will  drink,  we  shall  be  merry,"  and  the  deep 
voice  of  the  bass,  "As  God  gave !  As  God  gave !  As 
God  gave ! " 

Whenever  he  could  hear  a  fiddle  at  a  harvest-home  or 
some  wedding,  it  was  a  great  holiday  for  him.  After  that 
he  went  behind  the  stove  and  said  nothing  for  whole 
days,  looking  like  a  cat  in  the  dark  with  gleaming  eyes.y 
Then  he  made  himself  a  fiddle  out  of  a  shingle  and  some 
horsehair,  but  it  would  not  play  beautifully  like  that  one 
in  the  public  house,  —  it  sounded  low,  very  low,  just  like 


YANKO  THE   MUSICIAN.  259 

mice  of  some  kind,  or  gnats.  He  played  on  it  however 
from  morning  till  evening ;  though  for  doing  that  he  got 
so  many  cuffs  that  at  last  he  looked  like  a  pinched,  unripe 
apple.  But  such  was  his  nature.  The  poor  child  became 
thinner  and  thinner,  only  he  had  always  a  big  stomach  ; 
his  forelock  grew  thicker  and  thicker,  and  his  eyes  opened 
more  and  more  widely,  though  filled  oftener  with  tears ; 
but  his  cheeks  and  his  breast  fell  in  more  and  more. 

He  was  not  like  other  children  at  all ;  he  was  rather 
like  that  shingle  fiddle  of  his,  which  hardly  made  a 
noise.  Besides,  he  was  suffering  from  hunger  before 
harvest,  for  he  lived  mainly  on  raw  carrots,  and  the 
wish  to  have  a  fiddle.  But  that  wish  did  not  turn  out 
well  for  Yanko. 

At  the  mansion  the  lackey  had  a  fiddle  and  he  played 
on  it  sometimes  at  twilight  to  please  the  waiting-maid. 
Yanko  crept  up  at  times  among  the  burdocks  as  far  as  the 
open  door  of  the  pantry  to  gaze  at  the  fiddle.  It  hung 
on  the  wall  opposite  the  door ;  the  boy  would  send  his 
whole  soul  out  through  his  eyes  to  it,  for  it  seemed  to 
him  that  that  was  some  unattainable  object,  which  he 
was  unworthy  'to  touch,  that  that  was  some  kind  of 
dearest  love  of  his.  Still  he  wanted  it.  He  would  like 
to  have  it  in  his  hand  at  least  one  time,  to  look  at  it 
near  by.  The  poor  little  fellow's  heart  quivered  with 
happiness  at  the  thought. 

A  certain  night  there  was  no  one  in  the  pantry.  Their 
lordships  had  been  in  foreign  countries  for  some  time, 
the  house  was  empty,  the  lackey  was  at  the  other  side 
with  the  waiting-maid.  Yanko,  lurking  in  the  burdocks, 
had  been  looking  for  a  long  time  through  the  broad  door 
at  the  object  of  all  his  desires.  The  moon  in  the  sky  was 
full,  and  shone  in  with  sloping  rays  through  the  pantry 
window,  which  it  reflected  in  the  form  of  a  great  quad- 


260  YANKO  THE   MUSICIAN. 

rangle  on  the  opposite  wall.  The  quadrangle  approached 
the  fiddle  gradually  and  at  last  illuminated  every  bit  of 
the  instrument.  At  that  time  it  seemed  in  the  dark 
depth  as  if  a  silver  light  shone  from  the  fiddle,  —  espe- 
cially the  plump  bends  in  it  were  lighted  so  strongly 
that  Yanko  could  barely  look  at  them.  In  that  light 
everything  was  perfectly  visible,  —  the  sides  with  incis- 
ions, the  strings,  and  the  bent  handle.  The  pegs  in  it 
gleamed  like  fireflies,  and  at  its  side  hung  the  bow  which 
seemed  a  rod  of  silver. 

Ah,  all  was  beautiful  and  almost  enchanted ;  and  Yanko 
looked  more  and  more  greedily.  He  was  crouched  in  the 
burdocks,  with  his  elbows  pressed  on  his  lean  knees ; 
with  open  eyes  he  looked  and  looked.  Now  terror  held 
him  to  the  spot,  now  a  certain  unconquerable  desire 
pushed  him  forward.  Was  that  some  enchantment,  or 
wrhat  ?  But  the  fiddle  in  the  bright  light  seemed  some- 
times to  approach,  as  it  were  to  float  toward  the  boy.  At 
times  it  grew  darker,  to  shine  up  again  still  more.  En- 
chantment, clearly  enchantment !  Then  the  breeze  blew ; 
the  trees  rustled  quietly,  there  was  a  noise  in  the  bur- 
docks, and  Yanko  heard,  as  it  were,  distinctly,  — 

"  Go,  Yanko,  there  is  no  one  in  the  pantry ;  go, 
Yanko ! " 

The  night  was  clear,  bright.  In  the  garden  a  nightin- 
gale began  to  sing  and  whistled  with  a  low  voice,  then 
louder,  "  Go !  go  in  !  take  it."  An  honest  wood-owl 
turned  in  flight  around  the  child's  head,  and  cried, 
"  Yanko,  no !  no ! "  The  owl  flew  away,  but  the  nightin- 
gale and  the  burdocks  muttered  more  distinctly,  "  There 
is  no  one  inside  ! "  The  fiddle  shone  again. 

The  poor  little  bent  figure  pushed  forward  slowly  and 
carefully ;  meanwhile  the  nightingale  was  whistling  in  a 
a  very  low  voice,  "  Go  !  go  in  !  take  it ! " 


YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN.  261 

The  white  shirt  appeared  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
pantry.  The  dark  burdocks  covered  it  no  longer.  On 
the  threshold  of  the  pantry  was  to  be  heard  quick  breath- 
ing from  the  weak  breast  of  the  child.  A  moment  more 
the  white  shirt  has  vanished ;  there  is  only  one  naked 
foot  outside  the  threshold.  In  vain,  O  wood-owl,  dost 
thou  fly  once  again  and  cry,  "  No !  no  ! "  Yanko  is  in 
the  pantry. 

The  great  frogs  began  to  croak  in  the  garden  pond,  as 
if  frightened,  but  afterward  grew  silent.  The  nightingale 
ceased  to  sing,  the  burdocks  to  rustle.  Meanwhile  Yanko 
crept  along  silently  and  carefully,  but  all  at  once  fear 
seized  him.  In  the  burdocks  he  felt  at  home,  like  a 
wild  beast  in  a  thicket ;  but  now  he  was  like  a  wild 
beast  in  a  trap.  His  movements  became  hurried, 
his  breath  short  and  whistling ;  at  the  same  time,  dark- 
ness seized  hold  of  him.  A  quiet  summer  lightning 
flashed  between  east  and  west,  and  lighted  up  once 
more  the  interior  of  the  pantry,  and  Yanko  on  all  fours 
with  his  head  turned  upward.  But  the  lightning  was 
quenched,  a  small  cloud  hid  the  moon,  and  nothing  was 
to  be  seen  or  heard. 

After  a  while  a  sound  came  out  from  the  darkness, 
very  low  and  complaining,  as  if  some  one  had  touched 
strings  unguardedly,  and  on  a  sudden  some  rough,  drowsy 
voice,  coming  out  of  the  corner  of  the  pantry,  asked 
angrily,  - 

"  Who  is  there  ? " 

Yanko  held  his  breath  in  his  breast,  but  the  rude  voice 
inquires  again,  — 

"  Who  is  there  ? " 

A  match  became  visible  on  the  wall ;  there  was  a  light, 
and  then  —  Oh,  my  God  !  curses,  blows,  tho  wailing  of  a 
child,  and  crying  "  Oh,  for  God's  sake  ! "  —  the  barking  of 


262  YANKO   THE   MUSICIAN. 

dogs,  moving  of  lights  behind  the  window,  a  noise  through 
the  whole  building ! 

The  next  day  Yanko  stood  before  the  tribunal  of  the 
village  mayor. 

Was  he  to  be  tried  as  a  criminal  ?  Of  course !  The 
mayor  and  councilrnen  looked  at  him  as  he  stood  before 
them  with  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  with  staring  and  terri- 
fied eyes,  small,  poor,  starved,  beaten,  not  knowing  where 
he  was  or  what  they  wanted  of  him.  How  judge  such 
a  poor  little  misery,  who  was  ten  years  of  age,  and  barely 
able  to  stand  on  his  legs  ?  Send  him  to  prison,  —  how 
help  it  ?  Still  it  was  necessary  to  have  some  small 
mercy  on  children.  Let  the  policeman  take  him  and 
give  him  a  flogging,  so  that  he  won't  steal  a  second  time, 
and  that's  the  whole  business. 

It  was  indeed ! 

They  called  Stah,  who  was  the  village  police. 

"  Take  him  and  give  him  something  for  a  keepsake." 

Stah  nodded  his  dull  beastlike  head,  thrust  Yanko 
under  his  arm  as  he  would  a  cat,  and  took  him  out  to  the 
barn.  The  child,  whether  he  failed  to  understand  what 
the  question  was,  or  whether  he  was  frightened  —  't  is 
enough  that  he  uttered  not  a  syllable  ;  he  merely  stared 
like  a  bird.  Did  he  know  what  they  were  doing  with  him  ? 
Only  when  Stah  took  the  handful  to  the  stable,  stretched 
it  on  the  ground,  and  raising  the  shirt  from  it  struck  a 
full  blow,  only  then  did  Yanko  scream,  "  Mamma  !  "  and 
as  long  as  Stah  flogged  him  he  cried, "  Mamma  !  mamma ! " 
but  always  lower  and  weaker,  until  after  a  certain  blow 
the  child  called  mamma  no  longer. 

The  poor  broken  fiddle  ! 

Ai,  stupid,  angry  Stah,  who  beats  children  that  way  ? 
Besides,  this  one  is  small  and  weak,  hardly  living. 

The  mother  carne,  took  the  little  boy,  but  she  had  to 


YANKO  THE   MUSICIAN.  263 

carry  him  home.  The  next  day  Yanko  did  not  rise  from 
the  bed,  and  the  third  day,  in  the  evening,  he  died  quietly 
on  the  plank  cot  under  hemp  matting. 

The  swallows  were  twittering  in  the  cherry-tree  which 
grew  at  the  cottage  ;  the  rays  of  the  sun  entered  in  through 
the  window  pane  and  colored  with  the  brightness  of  gold 
the  dishevelled  hair  of  the  little  boy  and  his  face  in 
which  not  one  drop  of  blood  remained.  That  ray  was  as 
it  were  a  road  upon  which  the  soul  of  the  boy  was  to 
go  away.  It  was  well  that  it  went  by  a  broad  shin- 
ing road  in  the  moment  of  death,  for  during  life  it  went 
on  a  thorny  one,  truly.  Meanwhile  the  emaciated  breast 
moved  with  another  breath,  and  the  face  of  the  child 
was  as  if  absorbed  in  listening  to  the  sounds  of  the  village 
which  came  in  through  the  open  window.  It  was  even- 
ing, so  the  girls  coming  back  from  hay-making  were 
singing,  "  Oi,  on  the  green  field  ! "  and  from  the  stream 
came  the  playing  of  pipes.  Yanko  listened  for  the  last 
time  to  the  sounds  of  the  village.  On  the  matting  lay 
the  shingle  fiddle  at  his  side. 

All  at  once  the  face  of  the  dying  boy  lighted  up, 
and  from  his  whitening  lips  came  out  the  whisper 
"  Mamma ! " 

"  What,  my  son  ? "  answered  the  mother,  whom  tears 
were  choking. 

"  Mamma,  will  the  Lord  God  give  me  a  real  fiddle  in 
heaven  ? " 

"  He  will,  my  son,  He  will  give  thee  one,"  answered  the 
mother ;  but  she  could  speak  no  longer,  for  suddenly  in 
her  hard  breast  burst  the  gathering  sorrow,  and  groaning 
only,  "  0  Jesus  !  O  Jesus  ! "  she  fell  with  her  face  on  a 
box,  and  began  to  wail  as  if  she  had  lost  her  reason,  or  as 
a  man  wails  who  sees  that  he  cannot  wrest  the  beloved 
one  from  death. 


264  YANKO   THE   MUSICIAN. 

In  fact,  she  did  not  wrest  him ;  for  when  she  raised 
herself  again  she  looked  at  the  child.  The  eyes  of  the 
little  musician  were  open,  it  is  true,  but  fixed ;  his  face 
was  very  dignified,  gloomy,  and  rigid.  The  ray  of  the 
sun  had  gone  also. 

Peace  to  thee,  Yanko. 

On  the  second  day  the  master  and  mistress  of  the 
mansion  returned  to  their  residence  from  Italy,  with  their 
daughter  and  the  cavalier  who  was  paying  court  to  her 
The  cavalier  said,  — 

"  Quel  beau  pays  que  1'Italie  1 " 

"  And  what  a  people  of  artists  !  On  est  heureux  de 
chercher  la-bas  des  talents  et  de  les  prote'ger,"  added  the 
young  lady. 

The  birches  were  murmuring  above  Yanko. 


BARTEK  THE  VICTOR. 


BARTER   THE  VICTOR 
I. 

MY  hero  was  Bartek  Slovik ; 1  but  since  he  had  the 
habit  of  staring  when  any  one  spoke  to  him,  his 
neighbors  called  him  Bartek  the  Starer.  In  truth  he  had 
little  in  common  with  the  nightingale ;  on  the  contrary, 
his  mental  qualities  and  his  real  Homeric  simplicity 
gained  for  him  the  nickname  of  Bartek  the  Stupid.  The 
last  name  was  the  most  popular,  and  without  doubt  is 
the  only  one  that  will  pass  into  history,  though  Bartek 
had  a  fourth,  an  official  name.  Since  the  Polish  words 
"  chlovyek  " 2  and  "  slovik  "  present  no  difference  to  the 
German  ear,  and  since  the  Germans  love  to  translate,  in 
the  name  of  civilization,  barbarous  Slav  names  into  a 
more  cultured  language,  the  following  conversation  took 
place  in  its  time  while  they  were  registering  the  army 
list :  — 

"  What  is  thy  name  ? "  asked  the  officer  of  Bartek. 

"  Slovik." 

"Shloik?     Ach,  ja!    Gut)" 

And  the  officer  wrote  down,  "  Mensch  "  (man). 

Bartek  came  from  the  village  of  Pognembin ;  there  are 

1  Slovik  means  in  Polish  "  nightingale." 

3  Chlovyek  (czlowiek)  means  "man."  Owing  to  German  in- 
capacity to  distinguish  Slav  sounds,  the  officer  confounds  the 
word  which  means  nightingale  with  that  which  means  man,  and 
translates  Slovik,  nightingale,  Batek's  name,  into  Mensch,  the 
German  word  for  man. 


268  BARTEK  THE   VICTOR. 

very  many  villages  of  that  name  in  the  Principality  of 
Poznan,  and  in  other  lands  of  the  former  Commonwealth. 
Besides  his  land,  cottage,  and  two  cows  he  had  a  pied 
horse,  and  a  wife  Magda.  Thanks  to  such  a  concurrence 
of  circumstances,  he  could  live  quietly  and  according  to 
the  wisdom  contained  in  the  following  lines :  — 

"  A  horse  a  pied  one,  and  a  wife  Magda, 
What  God  is  to  give  He  will  give  anyway." 

In  fact,  his  life  arranged  itself  completely  as  God  gave, 
and  when  God  gave  war  Bartek  was  grieved  not  a  little. 
Notice  came  that  he  must  join  the  regiment ;  he  had  to 
go  from  his  cottage  and  land,  and  leave  everything  to  the 
care  of  the  woman.  The  people  in  Pognembin  were  on 
the  whole  poor  enough.  Bartek  used  to  go  to  the  mill  to 
work  in  winter,  and  in  that  way  helped  his  housekeeping ; 
but  what  now?  Who  knows  when  the  war  with  the 
French  will  be  over  ?  When  Magda  read  the  ticket  of 
summons,  she  began  to  curse :  "  May  they  —  may  they  be 
blinded !  Though  thou  art  stupid,  Bartek,  I  am  sorry  to 
lose  thee ;  the  French,  too,  will  not  let  thee  pass ;  they 
will  cut  thy  head  off,  or  something." 

Bartek  felt  that  his  wife  spoke  truly.  He  feared  the 
French  like  fire,  and  besides  he  was  sorry  to  go.  What 
had  the  French  done  to  him  ?  Why  go  to  that  terrible, 
strange  land,  where  there  was  not  one  soul  friendly 
to  him?  In  Pognembin  life  had  seemed  neither  this 
nor  that,  nothing  in  particular;  but  when  they  com- 
manded him  to  go,  he  saw  for  the  first  time  that,  people 
might  say  what  they  liked,  but  it  was  better  in  Pognem- 
bin than  anywhere  else.  There  was  no  help  though  — 
such  was  his  fate,  he  had  to  go. 

Bartek  embraced  his  wife,  his  ten-year  old  Franek; 
then  he  spat,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  went  out  of  the 


BARTEK  THE  VICTOR.  269 

cottage,  and  Magda  after  him.  They  did  not  part  with  an 
overflow  of  feeling.  She  and  the  boy  sobbed.  Bartek 
repeated,  "  Now  be  quiet,  now,"  and  they  found  themselves 
on  the  road.  There  they  saw  that  the  same  visitation 
had  met  all  Pognembin.  The  whole  village  had  come 
out ;  the  road  was  crowded  with  men  summoned  to  the  war. 
They  were  going  to  the  railroad  station,  and  women,  chil- 
dren, old  men,  and  dogs  were  accompanying  them.  The 
hearts  of  the  summoned  men  were  heavy.  Pipes  were 
hanging  from  the  mouths  of  only  a  few  of  the  younger 
ones ;  some  were  already  drunk,  to  begin  with ;  some  were 
singing,  with  hoarse  voices,  — 

"  Skrynetski's  hands  and  gold  rings 
Will  not  wield  a  sabre  at  the  war." 

A  few  Germans,  too,  of  the  Pognembin  colonists  were 
singing  from  fear  "  Die  Wacht  am  Ehein."  All  that 
crowd,  motley  and  many-colored,  with  the  glittering 
bayonets  of  police  in  the  midst  of  it,  was  pushing  forward 
along  the  fences  with  cries,  uproar,  and  hustling.  The 
women  were  holding  their  "  soldier-boys "  by  the  neck, 
and  weeping;  one  old  woman,  showing  a  yellow  tooth, 
shook  her  fist  at  something  in  space ;  another  was 
cursing,  "  May  the  Lord  God  pay  you  for  our  tears ! " 
Cries  were  heard  of  "  Franek  !  Kasek  !  Jozek  !  farewell ! " 
Dogs  are  barking.  The  bell  on  the  church  is  ringing. 
The  parish  priest  is  reading  prayers  for  the  dying,  for 
not  all  who  are  going  to  the  station  will  return  from 
it.  War  takes  them  all,  but  war  will  not  give  them  all 
back.  The  ploughs  are  rusting  in  the  furrows,  for  Pog- 
nembin has  declared  war  against  France.  Pognembin 
cannot  recognize  the  preponderance  of  Napoleon  III.,  and 
takes  the  cause  of  the  Spanish  succession  to  heart.  The 
sound  of  the  bell  conducts  the  crowd,  which  has  come 


270  BARTER  THE   VICTOR 

out  already  from  between  the  fences.  Figures  pass;  caps 
and  helmets  fly  from  heads.  A  golden  dust  rises  on  the 
road,  for  the  day  is  dry  and  sunny.  On  both  sides  of 
the  way  the  ripening  grain  rustles  with  heavy  head,  and 
bends  beneath  the  light  breeze,  which  blows  mildly  at 
intervals.  In  the  blue  sky  the  larks  are  soaring  and 
singing  as  if  they  had  gone  mad. 

The  station !  The  crowds  are  still  greater.  At  the 
station  are  men  summoned  from  Upper  Kryvda,  Lower 
Kryvda,  from  Vyvlashchyntse,  from  Nyedolya,  from 
Mizerov.  Movement,  noise,  disorder  !  The  walls  of  the 
station  are  covered  with  proclamations.  War  is  present, 
"  in  the  name  of  God  and  the  Fatherland."  The  Land- 
wehr  will  go  to  protect  their  native  homes,  their  wives, 
their  children,  their  cottages,  and  fields.  The  French,  it 
is  clear,  hold  Pognembin  in  special  hatred,  as  well  as  Upper 
Kryvda,  Lower  Kryvda,  Vyvlashchyntse,  Nyedolya,  and 
Mizerov.  It  seems  so  at  least  to  those  who  read  the  proc- 
lamations. New  crowds  are  coming  to  the  front  of  the 
station.  In  the  hall  the  smoke  of  pipes  fills  the  air  and 
hides  the  proclamations.  In  the  uproar  it  is  difficult  for 
people  to  understand  one  another;  everything  is  moving, 
shouting,  screaming.  On  the  platform  are  heard  German 
commands,  the  strong  words  of  which  have  a  peremptory, 
brief,  firm  sound. 

A  bell  is  heard,  a  whistle !  from  a  distance  comes  the 
violent  breath  of  the  engine,  —  every  moment  nearer, 
clearer.  It  seems  the  war  itself  is  approaching  in  person. 

A  second  bell.  A  quiver  runs  through  every  breast. 
Some  woman  screams,  "  Yadom,  Yadom ! "  Evidently  she 
is  calling  her  Adam.  But  other  women  catch  up  the 
word,  and  cry,  "  Yadan,  Yadan  !  "  (they  are  coming).  Some 
voice  more  shrill  than  others  adds,  "  Frantsuzy  yadan  ! " 
(the  French  are  coming ! )  and  in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  a 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  271 

panic  seizes  not  only  the  women  but  the  future  heroes 
of  Sedan.  The  crowd  •  is  stirred  up.  Meanwhile  the 
train  has  stopped  at  the  station.  In  all  the  windows 
uniforms  and  caps  with  red  bands  are  visible.  The  troops 
are  apparently  as  numerous  as  ants.  In  coal-cars  sullen, 
long-bodied  cannon  seem  black ;  on  platforms  a  forest  of 
bayonets  is  bristling.  Evidently  command  has  been 
given  the  soldiers  to  sing,  for  the  whole  train  is  just 
quivering  from  their  strong,  manly  voices.  A  certain 
power  and  might  issues  from  that  train  which  is  so  long 
that  its  end  is  out  of  sight. 

On  the  platform  they  are  beginning  to  marshal  the  re- 
cruits ;  whoever  has  the  chance  takes  farewell  once  again. 
Bartek,  waving  his  paws  like  the  wings  of  a  wind-mill 
thrusts  out  his  eyes. 

"  Now,  Magda,  farewell ! " 

"  Oi,  my  poor  fellow  ! " 

"  Thou  wilt  see  me  no  more ! " 

"  I  shall  see  thee  no  more  ! " 

"  There  is  no  help  of  any  kind !  " 

"  May  the  Mother  of  God  guard  and  save  thee ! " 

"  Farewell !  keep  the  cottage." 

The  woman  caught  him  by  the  neck,  with  weeping. 

"  May  God  go  with  thee." 

The  last  moment  has  come.  For  a  while  the  whining 
and  weeping,  and  lamenting  of  women  drown  every- 
thing. "  Farewell !  Farewell ! "  But  now  the  soldiers 
are  separated  from  the  crowd ;  they  are  already  a  dark, 
dense  mass  which  forms  into  squares  and  rectangles, 
and  moves  with  the  regularity  and  precision  of  a  ma- 
chine. The  command  comes,  "  Seats ! "  The  squares 
and  rectangles  break  in  the  centre,  move  toward  the  cars 
in  narrow  lines,  and  vanish  inside  them.  In  the  distance 
the  engine  whistles,  and  puffs  forth  rolls  of  blue  smoke. 


272  BARTEK  THE   VICTOR. 

Now  it  pants  like  a  dragon,  and  ejects  streams  of  vapor. 
The  lamentation  of  women  reaches  the  highest  pitch. 
Some  cover  their  eyes  with  their  aprons ;  others  stretch 
their  hands  toward  the  cars.  With  sobbing  voices  they 
repeat  the  names  of  their  husbands  and  sons. 

"  Farewell,  Bartek  !  "  cries  Magda  from  below  ;  "  and  go 
not  where  thou  'rt  not  sent.  May  the  Mother  of  God  — 
Farewell !  0  God  help  us  ! " 

"  But  take  care  of  the  cottage  ! "  calls  Bartek. 

The  line  quivers  suddenly ;  the  cars  strike  one  another, 
and  move. 

"  But  remember  that  thou  hast  a  wife  and  a  child ! " 
screams  Magda,  running  after  the  train.  "  Farewell,  in  the 
name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost.  Farewell !  " 

The  train  moves  with  increasing  rapidity,  bearing  waj- 
riors  from  Pognembin,  from  both  Kryvdas,  from  Nyedolya, 
and  Mizerov. 


II. 

ON  one  side,  Magda  is  returning  to  Pognembin  with  a 
crowd  of  women,  and  crying ;  on  the  other,  the  train  is 
rushing  forth  into  the  blue  distance,  bristling  with  bayo- 
nets, and  on  it  is  Bartek.  The  end  of  the  blue  distance 
is  not  to  be  seen.  Pognembin  is  barely  visible.  One 
poplar-tree  stands  there  looking  gray,  and  the  church- 
tower  shines  in  gold,  for  the  sun  is  playing  on  it.  Soon 
the  poplar  has  vanished,  and  the  golden  cross  seems 
a  mere  shining  point.  While  that  point  was  shining, 
Bartek  gazed  at  it;  but  when  it  also  vanished,  there 
was  no  end  to  the  man's  sorrow.  A  great  faintness 
seized  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  lost.  He  began  then 
to  look  at  the  corporal,  for  besides  God  there  was  no  one 
else  above  him.  What  will  happen  now  to  him  ?  The 


BARTEK  THE   VICTOR.  273 

corporal's  head  is  there  to  answer  that  question.  Bartek 
himself  knows  nothing,  understands  nothing.  The  cor- 
poral sits  on  a  bench,  holds  his  musket,  and  smokes  a 
pipe.  The  smoke,  as  if  a  cloud,  shades  every  little  while 
his  serious  and  anxious  face.  Not  Bartek's  eyes  alone 
are  looking  on  that  face  ;  all  eyes  are  looking  on  it  from 
every  corner  of  the  car.  In  Pognembin  or  Kryvda  every 
Bartek  or  Voitek  is  his  own  master ;  each  must  think  of 
himself  for  himself;  but  now  the  corporal  is  there  for 
that  purpose.  If  he  commands  them  to  look  toward  the 
right,  they  look  toward  the  right ;  if  he  commands  them 
to  look  toward  the  left,  they  look  toward  the  left.  Each 
one  asks  him  with  a  glance,  "  Well,  what  will  happen  to 
us  ? "  and  he  himself  knows  as  much  as  they,  and  would 
be  glad  also  if  a  superior  were  to  give  him  command  or 
explanation  in  this  regard.  Besides,  the  men  are  afraid 
to  ask  in  words,  for  it  is  war  time,  with  the  complete 
apparatus  of  courts-martial.  What  is  permitted  and 
what  not  is  unknown, — at  least  to  them;  and  they  are 
alarmed  by  the  sound  of  expressions  such  as  "  Kriegs- 
gericht "  (court-martial),  which  they  do  not  understand 
well,  but  fear  all  the  more. 

At  the  same  time  they  feel  that  this  corporal  is  more 
needful  to  them  now  than  at  the  manoeuvres  near  Poz- 
nan,  for  he  is  the  only  one  who  knows  everything,  —  he 
thinks  for  them ;  and  without  him  not  a  stir.  Mean- 
while the  musket  has  grown  burdensome  to  the  corporal, 
for  he  throws  it  to  Bartek  to  hold.  Bartek  seizes  the  gun 
hurriedly,  holds  his  breath,  stares  and  looks  at  the  corporal 
as  at  a  rainbow  ;  but  he  gains  little  comfort  from  that. 

Oi !  there  must  be  bad  news,  for  the  corporal  looks  as 
if  taken  from  a  cross.  At  the  stations  there  are  songs 
and  shouting ;  the  corporal  commands,  hurries  about, 
scolds,  so  as  to  exhibit  himself  to  his  superiors ;  but  when 

18 


274  BARTEK  THE  VICTOR. 

the  train  moves,  all  are  silent,  and  so  is  he.  For  him, 
too,  the  world  has  two  sides  at  present,  one  clear  and 
understandable,  —  that  is  his  cottage,  his  wife,  and  the 
feather-bed ;  the  other,  dark,  perfectly  dark,  —  that  is 
France  and  the  war.  His  ardor,  like  the  ardor  of  the 
whole  army,  would  be  glad  to  borrow  its  gait  from  the 
crab.  Their  courage  stirred  the  warriors  of  Pognembin 
the  more  evidently  that  it  was  sitting  not  in  them,  but 
on  their  shoulders.  And  since  every  soldier  carried  a 
knapsack,  a  cloak,  and  other  military  baggage,  they  all 
were  uneasy. 

Meanwhile  the  train  roared,  snorted,  and  flew  into  the 
distance.  At  every  station  new  cars  and  engines  were 
attached.  At  every  station  they  saw  only  helmets,  can- 
non, horses,  the  bayonets  of  infantry,  and  the  flags  of 
Ulans.  A  clear  evening  came  down  gradually.  The  sun 
lost  its  rays  in  a  purple  twilight ;  high  in  the  heavens 
droves  of  light  small  clouds  were  moving  with  edges 
darkened  by  the  sunset.  The  train  ceased  at  last  to  take 
people  at  the  stations ;  it  only  rattled,  and  flew  farther 
into  that  redness  as  into  a  sea  of  blood.  From  the  open 
car  in  which  Bartek  was  sitting  with  the  men  of  Pog- 
nembin, they  saw  villages,  settlements,  and  towns,  the 
towers  on  the  churches,  storks  bent  like  hooks,  stand- 
ing on  one  leg  at  their  nests,  single  cottages,  cherry- 
gardens,  —  all  gleamed  in  passing,  and  all  were  red.  The 
soldiers  began  to  whisper  to  one  another,  the  more  boldly 
that  the  corporal,  having  put  his  knapsack  under  his 
head,  had  fallen  asleep,  with  his  porcelain  pipe  between 
his  teeth.  Voitek  Gvizdala,  a  man  from  Pognembin,  sit- 
ting next  to  Bartek,  pushed  him  with  his  elbow,  — 

"  Bartek,  but  listen  !  " 

Bartek  turned  his  face  toward  him,  with  anxious  star- 
ing eyes. 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR  275 

"  Why  look  like  a  calf  going  to  the  slaughter  ? "  whis- 
pered Voitek ;  "  and  thou,  poor  fellow,  art  going  surely 
to  the  slaughter." 

"  Oi,  oi ! "  groaned  Bartek. 

"  Art  afraid  ? "  asked  Voitek. 

"  Why  should  n't  I  be  afraid  ?  " 

The  twilight  had  become  ruddier.  Voitek  stretched 
his  hand  toward  it,  and  whispered  on,  — 

"  Seest  thou  that  brightness  ?  Know'st,  stupid  fellow, 
what  that  is  ?  That  is  blood.  This  is  Poland,  our  coun- 
try. Dost  understand  ?  But  there,  far  away  where  it 
shines  so,  that  is  France." 

"  But  shall  we  get  there  soon  ?  " 

"  Art  in  a  hurry  ?  They  say  't  is  terribly  far  away. 
But  never  fear :  the  French  will  come  to  meet  us." 

Bartek  began  to  work  heavily  with  his  Pognembin 
head;  after  a  while  he  asked, — 

"  Voitek ! " 

"  What  ? " 

"Well,  for  example,  what  kind  of  people  are  the 
French?" 

Here  Voitek's  learning  saw  on  a  sudden  in  front  of  it 
an  abyss  into  which  it  might  plunge  head-foremost  more 
easily  than  fly  back  again.  He  knew  that  the  French 
are  French.  He  had  heard  something  about  them 
from  older  men,  who  said  that  they  always  conquered 
everybody ;  finally,  he  knew  that  they  are  some  kind  of 
very  foreign  people  ;  but  how  was  he  to  explain  this  to 
Bartek  so  that  he  might  know  how  foreign  they  are  ? 
First  of  all  he  repeated  the  question,— 

"  What  kind  of  people  are  they  ? " 

"  That 's  it." 

Three  nations  were  known  to  Voitek :  in  the  middle 
were  the  Poles ;  on  one  side  the  "  Moskale  "  (Muscovites) ; 


276  BARTEK   THE   VICTOR 

on  the  other,  the  Germans,  - —  but  various  kinds  of  Ger- 
mans. Preferring  to  be  clear  rather  than  accurate,  he 
said, — 

"  What  kind  of  people  are  the  French  ?  How  can  I 
tell  thee  ?  they  are  just  such  Germans,  only  worse." 

And  Bartek  in  answer  to  that :  "  Oh,  the  carrion  ! " 

Hitherto  he  had  had  only  one  feeling  touching  the 
French,  —  a  feeling  of  indescribable  fear ;  now  that  Prus- 
sian Landwehrmann  began  to  feel  toward  them  a  rather 
distinct  patriotic  dislike.  Still  he  did  not  understand  it 
all  clearly  yet ;  hence  he  inquired  again,  — 

"  But  will  Germans  fight  against  Germans  ?  " 

Here  Voitek,  like  a  second  Socrates,  determined  to 
proceed  by  the  method  of  comparison,  and  answered, — 

"  But  does  not  thy  Lysek  fight  with  my  Burek  ? " 

Bartek  opened  his  mouth,  and  looked  awhile  at  his 
master,  — 

"Oh,  that. is  true." 

"Besides,  the  Austrians  are  Germans,"  said  Voitek; 
"  and  have  not  our  people  fought  with  them  ?  Old 
Sversch  said  that  when  he  was  at  the  war,  Steinmetz 
shouted  to  them,  '  Forward,  boys,  against  the  Germans  ! ' 
But  it  won't  be  so  easy  with  the  French  !" 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake  ! " 

"The  French  have  never  lost  a  war.  The  man  that 
they  catch  cannot  get  away,  never  fear.  Every  man  of 
them  is  equal  to  two  or  three  on  our  side ;  and  they  have 
beards  like  Jews.  Sometimes  they  are  as  black  as  the 
Devil.  At  sight  of  such  people  commit  thyself  to  God." 

"Well,  but  why  do  we  go  against  them?"  asked 
Bartek,  in  desperation. 

That  philosophic  question  was  not  so  stupid  as  it 
seemed  to  Voitek,  who,  under  the  evident  influence  of 
official  inspiration,  hastened  with  an  answer,  — 


BARTEK  THE  VICTOR.  277 

"  I  should  rather  not  go  against  them.  But  if  we  don't 
go  to  them  they  '11  come  here.  There  is  no  help  for  it. 
Hast  thou  read  what  was  printed  ?  They  hate  our  men 
terribly.  People  say  that  they  are  so  hungry  for  the 
land  here  because  they  want  to  smuggle  vodka  out  of  the 
kingdom,  and  the  Government  will  not  let  them  ;  and 
that 's  the  cause  of  the  war.  Well,  dost  understand  ? " 

"  Why  should  n't  I  understand  ? "  said  Bartek,  with 
resignation. 

Voitek  continued,  "  And  they  are  as  greedy  for  women 
as  a  dog  for  cheese." 

"  In  that  case  they  would  n't  let  Magda  pass  ? " 

"  They  would  n't  let  even  old  women  pass." 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  Bartek,  in  such  a  tone  as  if  he  wished  to 
say,  "If  that  is  true  I  '11  fight ! " 

And,  in  fact,  it  seemed  to  him  that  that  was  too  much. 
Let  them  smuggle  vodka  from  the  kingdom,  if  they  like  ; 
but  let  them  keep  away  from  Magda.  Now  my  Bartek 
began  to  look  on  the  whole  war  from  the  point  of  view 
of  his  own  interest,  and  to  feel  a  certain  consolation  in 
the  thought  that  so  many  troops  and  cannon  were  moving 
forward  to  defend  Magda,  who  was  threatened  by  the 
seductions  of  the  French.  His  fists  were  clinched  invol- 
untarily, and  fear  of  the  French  was  mingled  in  his  mind 
with  hatred  of  them.  He  came  to  the  conviction  that 
there  was  no  escape  ;  it  was  necessary  to  go. 

Meanwhile  the  brightness  of  the  sky  had  vanished.  It 
was  dark.  The  car,  moving  on  rails  of  unequal  elevation, 
began  to  sway  greatly,  and,  in  keeping  with  its  motion, 
the  helmets  and  bayonets  nodded  to  the  left  and  the 
right. 

One  hour  passed,  and  a  second.  From  the  engine 
were  showered  millions  of  sparks,  which  crossed  one 
another  in  the  darkness  like  long  golden  streaks  and 


278  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

small  serpents.  Bartek  was  unable  to  sleep  for  a  long 
time.  As  those  sparks  shot  through  the  air,  so  did 
thoughts  in  his  mind  touching  the  war,  Magda,  Pognem- 
bin,  the  French,  and  the  Germans.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  even  had  he  wished  he  could  not  raise  himself  from 
the  bench  on  which  he  was  sitting.  He  fell  asleep  ;  but 
with  an  unwholesome  half-sleep.  Immediately  visions 
flew  to  him ;  first  of  all  he  saw  his  Lysek  fighting  his 
neighbor's  Burek,  till  the  dogs'  hearts  were  flying  in 
them.  He  grasps  after  his  stick  to  stop  them,  but  sees 
all  at  once  something  else :  at  Magda's  side  a  Frenchman 
is  sitting,  black  as  the  holy  earth ;  and  the  satisfied 
Magda  is  laughing,  and  showing  her  teeth.  Other  French- 
men are  sneering  at  Bartek,  and  pointing  at  him.  Of 
course  it  is  the  engine  puffing;  but  it  seems  to  him 
the  Frenchmen  are  calling,  "  Magda  !  Magda  !  Magda  !  " 
Bartek  screams, "  Shut  your  snouts,  you  scoundrels !  let  the 
woman  go  !  "  But  they  cry,  "  Magda  !  Magda  !  Magda  ! " 
Lysek  and  Burek  are  barking ;  all  Pognembin  is  shouting, 
"  Don't  give  up  the  woman  !  "  Is  Bartek  tied,  or  what  ? 
He  struggles,  pulls,  his  fetters  break.  Bartek  seizes  the 
Frenchmen  by  the  head,  and  all  at  once  — 

All  at  once  he  is  shaken  by  a  violent  pain  as  from  a 
heavy  blow.  Bartek  wakes  and  springs  to  his  feet.  The 
whole  car  is  roused.  All  ask  what  has  happened.  But 
poor  Bartek  has  caught  the  corporal  by  the  beard. 
Now  he  is  standing  erect  as  a  post,  two  fingers  at  his 
temple,  and  the  officer  is  waving  his  hand,  and  shouting 
as  if  mad,  — 

"  Ach  Sie  !  Dumrnes  Vieh  aus  der  Polakei !  Hau'  ich 
den  Luinmel  in  die  Fresse,  das  ihm  die  Zahne  sektionen- 
weise  aus  dem  Maule  herausfliegen  werden  !  [Oh,  stupid 
beast  from  Poland !  I  will  whack  the  clown  in  the  snout 
so  that  the  teeth  will  fly  out  of  his  mouth  in  sections !] " 


BARTEK  THE   VICTOR.  279 

The  corporal  is  hoarse  from  rage ;  but  Bartek  stands 
unmoved,  with  his  fingers  at  his  temple.  The  soldiers 
are  biting  their  lips  so  as  not  to  laugh ;  but  they  are 
afraid,  for  out  of  the  corporal's  mouth  are  falling  yet 
the  last  arrows :  "  Ein  polnischer  Ochse !  Ochse  aus 
Podolien  !  (Polish  ox,  ox  from  Podolia !)  " 

At  last  everything  is  quiet.  Bartek  sits  down  on 
his  old  place  again.  He  feels  that  his  cheeks  begin  to 
tingle  somehow,  and  the  engine  as  if  in  spite  repeats 
continually : 

"  Magda !  Magda  !  Magda ! " 

He  felt  also  some  kind  of  great  sorrow. 


III. 

MORNING!  A  scattered  pale  light  shines  on  faces 
which  are  sleepy  and  weary  from  lack  of  rest.  The 
soldiers  are  sleeping  on  the  bench,  without  order ;  some 
with  their  heads  on  their  breasts,  others  with  their  heads 
dropped  back.  The  morning  comes,  and  fills  the  whole 
world  with  rosy  light.  It  is  fresh  and  wholesome.  The 
soldiers  wake  up.  The  bright  morning  brings  out  of 
shadow  and  mist  a  certain  country  unknown  to  them. 
Hei !  but  where  now  is  Pognembin,  where  Upper  and 
Lower  Kryvda,  where  Mizerov  ?  Here  it  is  strange,  and 
everything  is  different.  The  high  land  round  about  is 
shaded  with  oaks ;  in  the  valleys  the  houses  are  covered 
with  red  roofs,  with  black  milkwort  on  the  walls, — 
houses  beautiful  as  palaces,  grown  around  with  grape- 
vines. Here  and  there  are  churches  with  pointed  towers, 
here  and  there  mill  chimneys  with  plumes  of  rosy  smoke. 
But  somehow,  it  is  crowded ;  there  is  a  lack  of  grain- 
fields.  The  people  are  numerous  as  ants.  Villages  and 


280  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

towns  shoot  by.  The  train,  without  stopping,  passes 
a  number  of  smaller  stations.  Something  must  have 
happened,  for  everywhere  crowds  are  to  be  seen.  The 
sun  comes  up  slowly  from  behind  the  hills  ;  therefore, 
one  and  another  Matsek  begin  their  "  Our  Father " 
aloud.  Others  follow  their  example.  The  first  rays 
put  their  glitter  on  the  prayerful  and  serious  faces  of 
the  men. 

Meanwhile  the  train  stops  at  the  main  station.  A 
throng  of  people  surrounds  it  at  once.  News  from  the 
seat  of  war,  a  victory  !  a  victory  !  The  despatches  had 
come  some  hours  before.  All  were  expecting  defeat,  and 
when  news  of  success  waked  them,  their  joy  knew  no 
bounds.  People  half  dressed  left  their  beds  and  hurried 
to  the  station.  From  some  roofs  flags  are  waving  already, 
and  in  all  hands  are  handkerchiefs.  They  bring  beer  to 
the  cars,  tobacco,  and  cigars.  Their  enthusiasm  is  beyond 
speech,  faces  are  radiant.  "  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein  "  is 
roaring  like  a  storm.  Some  are  weeping,  others  fall 
into  one  another's  embraces.  "  Unser  Fritz  has  crushed 
them  to  pieces  !  cannon  and  flags  are  captured  !  "  With 
noble  enthusiasm  the  crowd  give  the  soldiers  everything 
they  have.  Joy  enters  the  hearts  of  the  soldiers,  and 
they  begin  to  sing  too.  The  cars  are  trembling  from  the 
deep  voices  of  the  men,  and  the  crowds  listen  with  won- 
der to  the  words  of  songs  which  they  do  not  understand. 
The  Pognembin  men  are  singing,  "  Bartosh !  Bartosh ! 
O  lose  not  thy  hope."  "Die  Polen  !  Die  Polen!"  repeat 
the  crowd  by  way  of  explanation,  and  gather  around 
the  cars,  wondering  at  the  appearance  of  the  soldiers, 
and  at  the  same  time  strengthening  themselves  by 
relating  anecdotes  of  the  terrible  bravery  of  those  Polish 
regiments. 

Bartek   has   swollen  cheeks,  which    with   his  yellow 


BARTER  THE  VICTOR.  281 

mustaches,  staring  eyes,  and  enormous  bony  form  make 
him  terrible.  They  look  on  him  as  a  special  beast. 
What  defenders  the  Germans  have  1  He  will  fix  the 
French  !  Bartek  smiles  with  satisfaction,  for  he  too  is 
glad  that  they  have  beaten  the  French,  who  at  least  will 
not  come  to  Pognembin  to  lead  Magda  astray ;  they 
won't  take  his  land.  He  smiles  then  ;  but  since  his  face 
pains  him  greatly,  he  twists  it  withal,  and  in  truth  he  is 
terrible.  But  he  eats  with  the  appetite  of  an  Homeric 
hero ;  pea-sausage  and  goblets  of  beer  vanish  in  his 
mouth  as  in  a  cavern.  They  give  him  cigars,  pfennigs ; 
he  takes  everything. 

"  They  are  a  good  sort  of  people,  these  German  fellows," 
says  he  to  Voitek  ;  but  after  a  while  he  adds,  "  But  seest 
thou  they  have  beaten  the  French  ? " 

The  sceptical  Voitek  casts  a  shadow  on  his  joy.  Voitek 
is  a  Cassandra-like  prophet. 

"  The  French  always  let  themselves  be  beaten  in  the 
beginning  so  as  to  lead  men  astray,  but  afterward  when 
they  go  at  it  the  chips  fly." 

Voitek  did  not  know  that  the  greater  part  of  Europe 
shared  his  opinion  ;  and  still  less  did  he  know  that  all 
Europe  was  mistaken  as  well  as  he. 

They  went  farther.  Every  house  within  eyesight  was 
covered  with  flags.  At  some  stations  they  were  detained 
longer,  for  every  place  was  filled  with  trains.  Troops 
were  hastening  from  all  parts  of  Germany  to  strengthen 
their  victorious  brethren.  The  trains  were  adorned  with 
green  crowns.  The  Ulans  held  on  their  lances  bouquets 
of  flowers,  given  them  on  the  road.  Among  the  Ulans  the 
majority  were  Poles  also.  Cries  were  heard  often  from 
the  cars,  — 

"  How  are  ye,  boys  ?  and  whither  is  God  leading 
you?" 


282  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

Sometimes  from  a  train  flying  past  on  a  neighboring 
track  came  the  well-known  song  : 

"  From  the  other  side  of  Sandomir 
The  maiden  calls  her  soldier  — 

And  then  Bartek  and  his  comrades  catch  up  : 

"  Oh,  soldier,  come  and  love  me. 
I  have  not  eaten  yet  — May  God  reward  thee  f " 

In  the  same  degree  in  which  all  had  left  Pognembin 
in  sorrow  were  they  now  full  of  spirit  and  enthusiasm. 
The  first  train  with  the  first  wounded  coming  from  France 
destroyed  that  good  feeling,  however.  The  train  with 
the  wounded  halts  at  Deutz,  and  halts  long  to  let  those 
pass  who  are  hastening  to  the  field  of  combat.  But  before 
all  can  pass  the  bridge  at  Cologne  some  hours  are  con- 
sumed. Bartek  rushes  with  others  to  look  at  the  sick 
and  wounded.  Some  are  lying  in  covered  cars,  others 
for  want  of  room  in  open  ones,  and  the  latter  could  be 
seen  easily.  At  the  first  glance  the  heroic  courage  of 
Bartek  flew  out  again  to  his  shoulder. 

"  Come  here,  Voitek,"  cries  he,  with  terror ;  "  but  see 
how  many  men  these  French  have  spoiled  ! "  And  there 
is  something  to  look  at !  —  pale  suffering  faces,  some 
black  from  powder  or  pain,  bespattered  with  blood.  In 
answer  to  the  general  rejoicing  these  give  only  groans. 
Some  of  them  curse  the  war  of  French  against  Germans. 
Parched  and  dry  lips  cry  every  moment  for  water ;  eyes 
gaze  as  in  madness.  Here  and  there  among  the  wounded 
is  to  be  seen  the  stiffened  face  of  one  dying,  —  sometimes 
calm,  with  blue  around  the  eyes,  sometimes  distorted 
from  convulsions,  with  wild  stare  and  grinning  teeth. 
Bartek  sees  for  the  first  time  the  bloody  fruits  of  war. 
A  new  chaos  rises  in  his  head ;  he  looks  as  if  stunned, 
and  stands  in  the  throng  with  mouth  open  ;  they  knock 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  283 

against  him  on  every  side;  a  policeman  pushes  him  with 
the  butt  of  his  musket  in  the  shoulder.  He  seeks  Voitek 
with  his  eyes,  finds  him,  and  says,  — 

"  Voitek,  God  save  us  !  oh  !  " 

"  It  will  be  that  way  with  thee,  too." 

"  Jesus  Mary  !  And  so  people  kill  each  other  like 
that !  Why,  when  a  man  in  a  village  strikes  another  the 
police  take  him  to  the  court  and  punish  him." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  now  the  best  man  is  he  who  kills 
most  people.  Didst  think,  stupid  fellow,  that  thou 
wouldst  fire  off  powder  as  at  the  manoeuvres  or  at  a 
mark,  —  not  at  men  ?  " 

Here,  there  was  an  evident  difference  between  theory 
and  practice.  Our  Bartek  was  a  soldier  however.  He 
had  been  at  manoeuvres  and  musters,  had  fired  guns,  and 
knew  that  war  was  for  men  to  kill  one  another ;  but  now 
when  he  saw  the  blood  of  the  wounded,  the  misery  of 
war,  he  felt  so  sick  and  faint  that  he  could  hardly  stand 
on  his  feet.  He  gained  new  respect  for  the  French,  which 
decreased  only  when  he  crossed  from  Deutz  to  Cologne. 
At  the  central  station  he  saw  prisoners  for  the  first 
time.  They  were  surrounded  by  a  multitude  of  soldiers, 
and  by  people  who  looked  at  them  with  feelings  of 
importance,  but  still  without  hatred.  Bartek  pressed 
through  the  crowd,  pushing  people  aside  with  his  elbow  ; 
he  looked  at  the  car  and  was  astonished. 

The  crowd  of  French  infantrymen  in  torn  cloaks,  small, 
dirty,  suffering,  filled  the  car  as  closely  as  herrings  fill  a 
cask.  Many  of  them  stretched  out  their  hands  for  the 
scant  gifts  which  the  crowd  bestowed  on  them  so  far  as 
the  guards  did  not  prevent.  Bartek,  according  to  what 
he  had  heard  from  Voitek,  had  an  altogether  different 
picture  in  his  mind  of  the  French.  Courage  returned 
from  his  shoulder  to  his  breast  again.  He  looked  around 
for  Voitek.  Voitek  was  at  his  side. 


284  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

"  What  didst  them  tell  me  ?  "  asked  Bartek.  "  They 
are  poor  little  fellows.  If  I  should  knock  the  head  off 
one  of  them  the  life  would  go  out  of  three  others." 

"  They  must  have  wasted  away  somehow,"  said  Voitek, 
equally  disenchanted. 

"  In  what  language  are  they  chattering  ?  " 

"Be  sure  'tis  not  Polish." 

Satisfied  in  this  regard  Bartek  went  farther  along  the 
cars. 

"  Miserable  fellows  ! "  said  he,  finishing  his  review  of 
soldiers  of  the  line. 

But  in  the  next  cars  sat  Zouaves.  These  gave  Bartek 
more  to  think  of.  Since  they  sat  in  covered  cars  it  was 
impossible  to  determine  whether  each  was  as  big  as  two 
or  three  common  men  ;  but  through  the  windows  could 
be  seen  the  long  beards  and  warlike,  serious  faces  of  old 
soldiers  with  dark  complexions,  and  eyes  gleaming 
terribly.  Bartek's  courage  went  again  to  his  shoulder. 

"  Those  are  more  dangerous,"  whispered  he,  as  if  fear- 
ing that  they  might  hear  him. 

"  Thou  hast  not  seen  those  yet  who  would  not  let 
themselves  be  taken,"  said  Voitek. 

"  God  guard  us  ! " 

"Thou  wilt  see  them  1" 

When  they  had  looked  at  the  Zouaves,  they  went  far- 
ther. At  the  next  car  Bartek  sprang  back  as  if  burned. 

"  Oh,  rescue  !     Voitek,  save  me  ! " 

In  the  open  window  was  visible  the  dark,  almost  black, 
face  of  a  Turko,  with  the  whites  of  his  eyes  turned  out. 
He  must  have  been  wounded,  for  his  face  was  distorted 
from  suffering. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asked  Voitek. 

"  That  is  the  Evil  One,  not  a  soldier.  God  be  merciful 
to  me  a  sinner  !  " 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR.  285 

"  But  look  at  him ;  what  teeth  he  has  ! " 
"Oh,  devil  take  him  !     I  will  not  look  at  him." 
Bartek  was  silent,  but  after  a  while  he  asked,  — 
"Voitek!" 
"What?" 

"  If  such  a  one  were  christened,  would  n't  it  help  ? " 
"  Pagans  have  no  understanding  of  the  holy  faith." 
The  order  was  given  to  take  seats.     After  a  while  the 
train  moved.     When  it  grew  dark,  Bartek  saw  before  him 
continually  the  black  face  of  the  Turko  and  the  terrible 
whites  of  his  eyes.     From  the  feelings  which  at  that 
moment   possessed   this   warrior   of   Pognembin,   it  was 
not   possible   to  prophesy  much   concerning   his   future 
exploits. 

IV. 

AN  intimate  part  in  the  general  engagement  at  Grave- 
lotte  convinces  Bartek  at  first  of  this  only,  —  that  in  a 
battle  there  is  something  to  stare  at,  but  nothing  to  do. 
To  begin  with,  he  and  his  regiment  are  commanded  to 
stand  with  grounded  arms  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  covered 
with  grape-vines.  From  a  distance  cannon  are  playing  ; 
near  by  cavalry  regiments  are  flying  past  with  a  thunder 
from  which  the  ground  trembles  ;  now  pennons  are  glit- 
tering, now  the  swords  of  cuirassiers.  On  the  hill  through 
the  blue  sky  grenades  fly  hissing  in  the  form  of  white 
cloudlets  ;  smoke  fills  the  air,  and  hides  the  horizon.  It 
seems  that  the  battle,  like  a  storm,  will  go  past. at  the 
sides  ;  but  doubt  does  not  last  long. 

After  a  time  certain  wonderful  movements  rise  around 
Bartek's  regiment.  Other  regiments  begin  to  take  their 
places  near  it ;  and  in  the  interval  between  them  can- 
non are  swept  in  with  all  horse-speed,  unlimbered  in  a 
flash,  and  their  jaws  turned  toward  the  hill-top.  The 


286  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

whole  valley  is  filled  with  troops.  Every  place  is  thun- 
dering with  commands  ;  adjutants  are  flying.  But  our 
men  in  the  ranks  are  whispering  one  to  another,  "  Oi, 
we  shall  catch  it,  we  shall ! "  or  they  ask  one  another 
with  alarm,  "  Is  it  beginning  ? "  —  "  Surely  it  is."  Now 
comes  uncertainty,  a  riddle,  —  maybe  death.  In  the 
smoke  which  covers  the  hill-top  something  is  seething 
and  rattling  terribly.  Nearer  and  nearer  are  heard  the 
deep  roar  of  cannon  and  the  rattling  of  musketry. 
From  a  distance  comes,  as  it  were,  some  undefined 
crashing;  those  are  the  mitrailleuses.  Suddenly,  when 
the  newly-placed  cannon  roar,  the  earth  and  the  air 
tremble  together.  Before  Bartek's  regiment  there  is  a 
terrible  hissing.  They  look :  something  is  flying  bright 
as  a  rose,  like  a  cloudlet,  and  in  that  cloudlet  something 
is  hissing,  laughing,  gnashing  its  teeth,  neighing,  and 
howling.  The  men  cry,  "  Grenade  !  grenade  !  "  Then 
that  bird  of  war,  moving  like  a  whirlwind,  approaches, 
falls,  bursts !  A  dreadful  roar  tears  the  ears,  —  an  out- 
burst as  if  the  world  were  falling,  and  a  blow  as  if  from 
a  wind-stroke.  Disorder  in  the  ranks  standing  near  the 
cannon,  a  cry,  and  a  command,  "  Attention  ! "  Bartek 
stands  in  the  first  rank,  his  gun  at  his  shoulder,  his  head 
erect,  his  beard  motionless ;  therefore  his  teeth  are  not 
chattering.  It  is  not  permitted  to  tremble,  it  is  not  per- 
mitted to  fire.  Stand !  Wait !  The  second  grenade 
comes,  the  third,  the  fourth,  the  tenth !  The  wind  blows 
the  smoke  away  from  the  hill.  The  French  have  driven 
from  it  the  Prussian  batteries,  have  placed  there  their 
own,  which  are  vomiting  fire  now  into  the  valley.  Every 
moment  long  white  darts  of  smoke  are  shooting  out  of 
the  vineyard.  The  infantry,  under  cover  of  the  cannon, 
are  descending  lower  and  lower,  so  as  to  open  a  musketry- 
fire.  Now  they  are  perfectly  visible ;  for  the  wind  has 


BARTEK   THE   VICTOR.  287 

borne  away  the  smoke.  Has  the  vineyard  bloomed  with 
poppies  ?  No,  those  are  the  red  caps  of  infantry.  At 
once  they  disappear  among  the  tall  grape-vines ;  they 
are  not  to  be  seen,  —  only  here  and  there  a  tri-colored 
flag  appears.  The  musketry-fire  begins,  —  quick,  feverish, 
irregular ;  it  bursts  forth  suddenly  every  moment  in  new 
places.  Above  that  fire,  howling  continually,  come  the 
grenades,  crossing  one  another  in  the  air.  On  the  hill 
shouts  burst  forth,  which  are  answered  in  the  valley  by 
German  hurrahs.  Cannon  from  the  valley  roar  uninter- 
ruptedly. The  regiment  stands  there  immovable. 

The  circle  of  fire  begins,  however,  to  enclose  it  from 
the  flanks.  Bullets  from  afar  buzz  like  horse-flies  or 
shoot  past  with  a  terrible  whistle.  Every  moment  there 
are  more  of  them,  —  now  they  are  whistling  around  the 
heads,  noses,  eyes,  shoulders  of  the  men ;  thousands  of 
them,  millions  of  them  are  coming.  It  is  a  marvel  that 
a  man  is  left  standing.  All  at  once  behind  Bartek  some 
one  groans,  "Jesus ! "  then  the  command  is  heard,  "  Close !" 
again  a  groan,  "  Jesus  ! "  after  that  "  Close  ! "  At  last 
there  is  one  unbroken  groan ;  the  commands  come  more 
quickly  ;  the  ranks  close  ;  the  whistling  is  more  frequent ; 
then  unceasing  and  awful.  The  slain  are  dragged  out  by 
the  feet.  The  judgment  of  God  is  there  present. 

"  Art  afraid  ?  "  asks  Voitek. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be?"  answers  our  hero,  with  chat- 
tering teeth. 

And  both  stand  there,  Bartek  and  Voitek,  and  it  does 
not  even  occur  to  them  that  it  is  possible  to  run.  They 
were  ordered  to  stand  ;  and  that  is  the  end  of  it !  Bartek 
did  not  tell  the  truth.  He  was  not  so  much  afraid  as 
thousands  of  others  would  have  been  in  his  place.  Dis- 
cipline lorded  it  over  his  imagination,  and  his  imagination 
did  not  paint  to  him  the  situation  in  its  dreadful  reality. 


288  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

Still  Bartek  thought  that  they  would  kill  him,  and  he 
conveyed  that  thought  to  Voitek. 

"There  will  be  no  hole  in  heaven  if  such  a  fool  is 
killed,"  answered  Voitek,  with  vexation. 

These  words  pacify  Bartek  considerably.  It  seems  to 
him  that  the  main  question  for  him  is  whether  there 
will  be  a  hole  in  heaven.  Pacified  in  this  regard,  he 
stands  patiently ;  only  feels  terribly  hot,  and  the  sweat 
streams  over  his  face.  Meanwhile  the  fire  becomes  so 
murderous  that  the  ranks  are  melting  before  their  eyes. 
There  is  no  one  to  drag  away  the  killed  and  the  wounded  ; 
the  groans  of  the  dying  are  mingled  with  the  whistling 
of  missiles  and  the  roar  of  musketry.  By  the  movement 
of  the  tri-colored  flag  it  is  clear  that  the  infantry  con- 
cealed in  the  vineyard  are  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 
The  crowds  of  mitrailleuses  are  decimating  the  ranks, 
which  despair  is  now  seizing. 

But  in  the  sounds  of  that  despair  is  felt  the  muttering 
of  impatience  and  rage.  If  they  are  commanded  to  ad- 
vance they  will  go  like  a  storm.  Only  they  cannot  stand 
in  one  place.  Some  soldier  tears  his  cap  from  his  head 
on  a  sudden,  hurls  it  with  all  force  to  the  ground,  and 
says,  — 

"  One  death  to  the  goat ! " 

Bartek  found  again  a  known  consolation  in  these 
words,  so  that  he  ceased  almost  to  fear.  For  if  death  must 
come  once,  it  is  no  great  question.  That  peasant  philos- 
ophy is  better  than  any  other,  since  it  gives  consolation. 
Bartek  knew  before,  of  course,  that  death  must  come 
once ;  but  it  was  pleasant  for  him  to  hear  this,  and  to 
have  complete  certainty,  especially  since  the  battle  had 
begun  to  turn  into  utter  defeat.  Think  of  it,  —  that 
regiment,  without  firing  a  shot,  is  already  half  annihi- 
lated !  Crowds  of  soldiers  from  other  scattered  regiments 


BARTEK   THE  VICTOR.  289 

are  rushing  past  in  disorder;  but  these  men  from  Pog- 
nembin,  from  Upper  and  Lower  Kryvda  and  Mizerov, 
held  by  the  iron  discipline  of  Prussia,  are  standing  still. 
But  in  their  ranks  a  certain  hesitation  is  felt.  In  a 
moment  the  bonds  of  discipline  will  burst.  The  ground 
under  their  feet  is  growing  soft  and  slippery  from  blood, 
the  raw  smell  of  which  is  mixed,  with  the  smell  of  the 
powder-smoke.  In  certain  places  the  ranks  cannot  close, 
for  corpses  block  the  way.  At  the  feet  of  those  men 
who  are  still  standing,  the  other  half  of  the  regiment  is 
lying  in  blood,  in  groans,  in  convulsions,  dying  or  in  the 
grasp  of  death.  Air  fails  the  breath.  A  murmur  is 
rising  in  the  ranks,  — 

"  They  have  brought  us  here  to  be  slaughtered  I " 

"  No  one  will  go  from  this  place." 

"  Still,  Polnisches  Vieh  ! "  sounds  the  voice  of  an  officer. 

"  It  is  well  for  you  behind  my  collar ! " 

"  Steht  der  Kerl  da  !  " 

Suddenly  some  voice  begins  to  speak,  — 

"  Under  Thy  protection  — 

Bartek  accompanies  at  once,  "  We  take  refuge,  Holy 
Mother  of  God  ! " 

And  soon  a  chorus  of  Polish  voices  is  calling  out  on 
that  field  of  destruction  to  the  Patroness  of  Chenstohova, 
"  Eeject  not  our  prayers !  "  And  from  under  their  feet 
groans  accompany  them,  "  O  Mary,  O  Mary  ! "  And  she 
heard  them  evidently,  for  that  moment  an  adjutant 
rushes  up  on  a  foaming  horse.  "  To  the  attack  !  Hurrah ! 
Forward ! " 

The  ridge  of  bayonets  is  lowered  suddenly  ;  the  rank 
stretches  in  a  long  line,  and  rushes  toward  the  hill,  seek- 
ing with  the  bayonet  those  enemies  which  it  could  not 
find  with  the  eye.  But  from  the  foot  of  the  hill  our  men 
are  divided  yet  by  two  hundred  yards,  and  this  distance 

19 


290  BARTEK  THE  VICTOR. 

must  be  crossed  under  a  murderous  fire.  Will  they  not 
be  slaughtered  to  the  last  man,  or  will  they  not  run  ? 
They  may  be  exterminated ;  but  they  will  not  draw  back, 
for  the  Prussian  commander  knows  what  note  to  play  for 
the  attack.  Amid  the  bellowing  of  cannon,  amid  mus- 
ketry-fire, smoke,  confusion,  and  groans,  louder  than  all 
the  trumpets  and  drums  is  rising  to  heaven  the  hymn  at 
which  every  drop  of  blood  dances  in  their  bosoms. 
"  Poland  is  not  lost !  "  Hurrah  !  Not  lost !  "  While  we 
are  living ! "  answer  the  Matseks.  Enthusiasm  seizes 
them ;  a  flame  is  beating  in  their  faces.  They  go  like  a 
storm  over  prostrate  bodies  of  men  and  horses,  over  frag- 
ments of  cannon.  They  perish,  but  sweep  forward  with 
shouting  and  singing.  They  have  reached  already  the 
edge  of  the  vineyard.  They  vanish  among  the  vines  ; 
but  the  hymn  rises.  At  once  their  bayonets  are  gleaming. 
On  the  hill  the  fire  is  seething  still  more  terribly.  In  the 
valley  the  trumpets  are  playing  continually.  The  French 
discharges  become  quicker  and  quicker,  feverish,  and  on 
a  sudden  are  silent. 

Down  in  the  valley  Steinmetz  —  that  old  wolf  of  war  — 
lights  a  porcelain  pipe,andspeaksin  tones  of  satisfaction, — 

"  Only  give  them  that  music !  They  have  got  there, 
bold  fellows  ! "  In  fact,  the  next  instant  one  of  the  tri- 
colored  standards  waving  proudly  springs  up,  stoops,  and 
vanishes. 

"  They  are  not  joking  ! "  said  Steinmetz. 

The  trumpets  play  the  same  hymn  again.  Another 
Poznan  regiment  rushes  on  to  help  the  first.  In  the 
thicket  a  battle  with  bayonets  rages  up. 

0  Muse !  sing  now,  of  my  Bartek,  that  posterity  may 
know  what  he  did  !  In  his  heart  fear,  terror,  impatience, 
despair,  were  blended  in  the  single  feeling  of  rage ;  and 
when  he  heard  that  music,  every  nerve  in  him  was  as 


BARTER  THE  VICTOR.  291 

rigid  as  steel  wire.  His  hair  was  on  end  ;  sparks  flew 
from  Ms  eyes.  He  forgot  the  world,  —  forgot  that  death 
must  come  once  ;  and  seizing  in  his  mighty  paws  the 
musket,  he  ran  on  with  the  others.  When  he  had  run  to 
the  hill,  he  fell  to  the  ground  at  least  ten  times,  bruised 
his  nose,  covered  himself  with  earth  and  with  the  blood 
which  was  running  from  his  nose,  and  hurried  forward, 
mad,  panting,  catching  the  air  with  open  mouth.  He 
was  staring  his  eyes  out  to  see  in  the  thicket  at  the 
soonest  some  Frenchman  ;  and  at  last  he  saw  three  at 
once  at  a  standard.  They  were  Turkos.  But  do  you 
think  that  Bartek  drew  back  ?  No !  he  would  have 
taken  Lucifer  himself  by  the  horns  at  that  moment.  He 
rushed  at  the  three  men,  and  they  with  a  howl  rushed  at 
him ;  two  bayonets,  like  two  stings,  are  already  touching 
his  breast ;  but  my  Bartek  takes  his  musket  like  a  club 
by  the  small  end,  whirls  it,  strikes.  A  terrible  cry  an- 
swers him,  a  groan,  —  and  two  black  bodies  are  quivering 
on  the  ground. 

That  moment  about  ten  comrades  ran  with  assistance 
to  the  third,  who  was  holding  a  flag.  Bartek  sprang  like 
a  fury  on  all  at  once.  They  fired ;  there  was  a  flash  and 
a  report,  and  at  the  same  time  in  the  rolls  of  smoke 
thundered  the  hoarse  bellow  of  Bartek,— 

"  Ye  have  missed  ! " 

And  again  the  musket  in  his  hand  described  a  terrible 
half-circle ;  again  groans  answered  his  blows.  The  Turkos 
drew  back  in  terror  at  sight  of  this  giant,  wild  with  rage ; 
and  whether  Bartek  heard  wrongly,  or  they  cried  out 
something  in  Arabic,  't  is  enough  that  it  seemed  to  him 
distinctly  that  from  their  broad  lips  came  the  cry,  — 

"  Magda !  Magda  !  " 

"  Ye  want  Magda  ! "  howled  Bartek,  and  with  one 
spring  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  enemy. 


292  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

Happily  a  number  of  Matseks  and  Voiteks  and  other 
Barteks  hurried  up  in  that  moment  to  aid  him.  In  the 
midst  of  the  thicket  of  vines  a  battle  sprang  up,  hand  to 
hand,  close,  which  was  accompanied  by  the  crash  of  mus- 
kets, the  whistling  of  nostrils,  and  the  feverish  puffing  of 
the  combatants.  Bartek  raged  like  a  storm.  Scorched 
with  smoke,  covered  with  blood,  more  like  a  beast  than 
a  man,  caring  for  nothing,  —  he  overturned  enemies  with 
every  blow,  broke  muskets,  smashed  heads.  His  hands 
moved  with  the  terrible  swiftness  of  a  machine  scatter- 
ing destruction.  He  rushed  to  the  standard-bearer,  seized 
him  with  iron  fingers  by  the  throat.  The  eyes  of  the 
standard-bearer  were  bursting  from  his  head,  his  face  was 
blue,  he  coughed,  and  his  hands  dropped  the  staff. 

"  Hurrah  1 "  cried  Bartek ;  and  raising  the  flag,  he 
waved  it  in  the  air. 

General  Steinmetz  saw  from  the  valley  that  rising  and 
falling  standard ;  but  he  could  see  it  only  during  one 
twinkle  of  an  eye,  for  in  the  next  twinkle  Bartek,  with 
that  same  standard,  crushed  in  some  head  covered  with  a 
cap  in  gold  lace. 

Meanwhile  his  comrades  had  rushed  ahead ;  Bartek 
was  left  for  one  instant  alone.  He  tore  off  the  flag,  hid 
it  in  his  bosom,  and,  seizing  the  staff  with  both  hands, 
hurried  after  his  comrades.  Crowds  of  Turkos,  howling 
with  unhuman  voices,  rushed  to  the  cannon  standing  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill;  after  them  rushed  the  Poles, 
shouting,  chasing,  crushing  them  with  gun-stocks,  and 
stabbing  with  bayonets. 

The  Zouaves,  standing  at  the  guns,  greeted  pursuers 
and  pursued  with  musketry-fire. 

"  Hurrah  ! "  cried  Bartek. 

The  Poles  rushed  to  the  cannon.  A  new  battle  rose, 
hand  to  hand.  At  this  moment  the  second  Pognem- 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  293 

bin  regiment  came  to  support  the  first.  The  flag-staff 
in  Bartek's  powerful  paws  was  turned  this  time  into  a 
kind  of  infernal  flail.  Every  blow  of  it  opened  a  free 
road  in  the  dense  ranks  of  the  Frenchmen.  Fear  began 
to  seize  the  Zouaves  and  the  Turkos.  In  the  place 
where  Bartek  was  fighting  they  fled.  Bartek  was  the 
first  to  sit  on  a  cannon,  as  he  would  on  his  Pognembin 
mare. 

But  before  the  soldiers  had  time  to  see  him  there  he 
was  sitting  on  a  second  one,  where  he  overturned  the 
flag  -bearer  with  his  flag. 

"  Hurrah,  Bartek  ! "  repeated  the  soldiers. 

The  victory  was  complete.  All  the  mitrailleuses  were 
captured.  The  fleeing  infantry  came  upon  a  new  Prus- 
sian regiment  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  and  laid  down 
their  arms. 

Bartek  in  the  pursuit  captured  a  third  flag.  It  was 
necessary  to  see  him  when,  wearied,  covered  with  sweat 
and  blood,  puffing  like  a  blacksmith's  bellows,  he  came 
down  with  the  others  from  the  hill,  bearing  on  his 
shoulders  three  flags.  The  Frenchmen  !  hei !  what  had 
he  done  with  them  ?  At  his  side  walked  the  torn  and 
slashed  Voitek.  Bartek  said  to  him : 

"  What  didst  thou  say  to  me  ?  They  are  only  worms, 
there  is  no  strength  in  their  bones.  They  scratched  me 
and  thee  like  cats,  but  that  is  all ;  and  when  I  struck  a 
man  he  went  to  the  ground." 

"  Who  knew  that  thou  wert  so  venomous  ?  "  answered 
Voitek,  who  had  seen  Bartek's  deeds,  and  began  to  look 
at  him  now  with  different  eyes  altogether. 

But  who  had  not  seen  those  deeds  ?  History,  the 
whole  regiment,  most  of  the  officers,  —  all  looked  now 
with  wonder  on  that  gigantic  fellow  with  his  thin  yellow 
mustaches  and  staring  eyes. 


294  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

"Ach!  Sie  verfluchter  Polake  (eh!  cursed  Pole)!" 
said  the  major  himself,  and  took  him  by  the  ear.  And 
Bartek  showed  his  back  teeth  with  delight.  When  the 
regiment  stood  in  line  again  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the 
major  pointed  him  out  to  the  colonel  and  the  colonel  to 
Steinmetz  himself. 

Steinmetz  looked  at  the  flags  and  gave  command  to 
take  them ;  then  he  began  to  look  at  Bartek.  My  Bartek 
stretches  out  like  a  string  again  and  presents  arms ;  but 
the  old  general  looks  at  him  and  shakes  his  head  with 
satisfaction.  At  last  he  begins  to  say  something  to  the 
colonel.  The  word  Unter-ojficier  (Under-officer)  was 
heard  distinctly. 

"Zu  dumm,  Excellenz  (too  stupid,  your  Excellency)," 
answered  the  major. 

"  Let  us  try,"  said  his  Excellency,  and  turning  his  horse 
approached  Bartek. 

Bartek  himself  knew  not  what  was  coming  to  him,  — 
a  thing  unheard  of  in  the  Prussian  army :  a  general 
speaks  to  a  soldier  !  His  Excellency  does  it  the  more 
easily  since  he  knows  Polish.  Besides,  that  soldier  has 
captured  three  flags  and  two  cannon. 

"  From  what  place  art  thou  ? "  asked  the  general. 

"  From  Pognembin,"  answered  Bartek. 

"Well.     And  thy  name?" 

"Bartek  Slovik." 

"  Mensch  (man),"  explained  the  major,  who  stood  be- 
hind his  Excellency. 

"  Mens  !  "  repeated  Bartek. 

"Knowst  why  thou  art  beating  the  French  ?" 

"  I  know,  Tselentsiyo  (Excellency)." 

"  Tell  me." 

Bartek  began  to  stutter :  "  For  —  for  —  " 

On  a  sudden  the  words  of  Voitek  came  by  good  luck 


BARTER  THE  VICTOR.  295 

to  his  memory ;  he  blurted  them  out  quickly  so  as  not  to 
misplace  them, — 

"  Because  they  are  Germans  too,  —  only  worse,  the 
carrion ! " 

The  face  of  the  old  Excellency  began  to  quiver  as  if  he 
were  about  to  burst  into  laughter.  After  a  moment  how- 
ever he  turned  to  the  major  and  said,— 

"  You  were  right." 

My  Bartek,  self-satisfied,  stood  straight  as  a  string. 

"  Who  won  the  battle  to-day  ? "  asked  the  general 
again. 

"  I,  Tselentsiyo,"  answered  Bartek,  without  hesitation. 

The  face  of  the  general  began  to  quiver  again. 

"  True,  true  ;  and  here  is  thy  reward." 

The  old  warrior  unfastened  the  iron  cross  from  his  own 
breast,  then  bent  and  fastened  it  to  Bartek.  The  good- 
humor  of  the  general  in  a  perfectly  natural  way  was 
reflected  on  the  faces  of  the  colonel,  the  majors,  the  cap- 
tains, and  down  to  the  corporals.  When  the  general  was 
gone,  the  colonel  on  his  part  gave  ten  thalers  to  Bartek, 
the  major  five,  and  so  on.  All  repeat  to  him,  laughing, 
that  he  had  won  the  battle.  In  consequence  of  this 
Bartek  was  in  the  seventh  heaven. 

A  wonderful  thing,  Voitek  was  the  only  man  not  very 
much  pleased  with  our  hero ! 

In  the  evening  when  they  had  taken  their  places  at  the 
fire  and  the  noble  countenance  of  Bartek  was  stuffed  with 
pea-sausage  as  tightly  as  the  sausage  itself  was  stuffed 
with  peas,  Voitek  called  out  with  a  tone  of  resignation,  — 

"  Oh,  thou,  Bartek,  art  stupid,  oh,  stupid ! " 

"  But  why  ?  "  asked  Bartek,  through  his  sausage. 

"  Why,  man,  didst  thou  tell  the  general  that  the  French 
were  Germans  ? " 

"  But  thou  didst  say  so  thyself." 


296  BARTER   THE    VICTOR. 

"  But  thou  shouldst  know  that  the  general  and  officers 
are  Germans  themselves. 

"  But  what  of  that  ?  " 

Voitek  began  somehow  to  stutter  something, —  "Though 
they  are  Germans  that  is  not  to  be  said  to  them,  for  it  is 
awkward." 

"  But  I  said  that  about  the  French,  not  about  them." 

"  Ei,  even  if  thou  didst,  still  — 

Voitek  stopped  suddenly.  Clearly  he  wished  himself 
too  to  say  something  else,  —  he  wished  to  explain  to 
Bartek  that  in  presence  of  the  German  it  was  not  right 
to  speak  ill  of  Germans ;  but  somehow  his  tongue  became 
twisted. 


V. 

SOMETIME   after,   the   Eoyal   Prussian   mail   brought   to 
Pognembin  the  following  letter,  — 

MOST  BELOVED  MAGDA,  —  May  Jesus  Christ  be  praised 
and  His  Holy  Mother!  What  is  to  be  heard  at  home ?  It 
is  well  for  thee  in  the  cottage  under  the  feathers,  and  I 
here  fighting  terribly.  We  were  around  the  great  fortress 
of  Metz,  and  I  so  pounded  the  French  that  all  the  cavalry 
and  infantry  were  astonished ;  and  the  general  himself 
was  astonished  and  said  that  I  won  the  battle,  and  he  gave 
me  a  cross.  Now  the  officers  and  under-officers  respect  me 
greatly,  and  do  not  beat  me  on  the  snout  much.  After 
that  we  marched  on,  and  there  was  a  second  battle  ;  but  I 
have  forgotten  how  the  place  is  called  ;  and  I  fought  also 
and  took  a  fourth  flag,  and  I  seized  and  took  captive  the 
greatest  colonel  of  cuirassiers.  The  under-officer  advises 
me  to  write  a  petition  and  ask  to  be  left  here  when  our 
regiments  are  sent  home.  In  war  there  is  no  place  to  sleep, 
but  all  a  man  can  hold  to  eat ;  and  there  is  wine  in  this 


BARTEK   THE   VICTOR.  297 

country  everywhere,  for  the  people  are  rich.  When  we 
burned  a  village  we  did  n't  spare  the  children  or  women, 
and  I  did  like  the  rest.  A  church  was  burned  to  the 
ground,  for  the  French  are  Catholics,  and  not  a  few  people 
were  burned.  We  are  going  now  against  the  Kaiser  him- 
self, and  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  war ;  but  do  thou  take 
care  of  the  cottage  and  Franek.  If  not,  when  I  come  home 
I  '11  so  fix  thee  that  thou  wilt  not  know  who  I  am.  I 
commit  thee  to  God. 

BARTEK   SLOVIK. 

Bartek  had  got  a  taste  for  war,  evidently,  and  began 
to  look  at  it  as  his  own  special  craft.  He  had  gained 
great  confidence  in  himself,  and  went  now  to  battle  as 
if  to  some  work  in  Pognembin.  After  every  engagement 
medals  and  crosses  flew  to  his  breast ;  and  though  he 
was  not  made  an  under-officer,  he  was  held  by  all  to  be 
the  first  soldier  in  the  regiment.  He  was  always  obedi- 
ent as  before,  and  possessed  the  blind  bravery  of  a  man 
who  cannot  estimate  danger.  His  valor  did  not  come 
now,  as  in  the  first  moments,  from  rage.  The  source  of 
it  now  was  military  practice,  and  faith  in  himself.  Be- 
sides, his  gigantic  strength  endured  all  hardships,  march- 
ing and  watching.  Men  perished  around  him,  —  he 
alone  endured  without  exhaustion ;  only  he  grew  fiercer, 
and  became  more  and  more  a  stern  Prussian  man-at-arms. 
He  began  not  only  to  beat  the  French,  but  to  hate  them. 
His  other  ideas  also  were  changed.  He  became  a  soldier- 
patriot,  and  gave  blind  worship  to  his  leaders.  In  the 
next  letter  he  wrote  to  Magda,  — 

"  Voitek  was  torn  into  two  pieces  ;  but  such  is  war,  thou 
knowest.  Besides,  he  was  a  fool,  for  he  said  that  the 
French  were  Germans,  while  they  are  French,  and  the 
Germans  are  our  people." 


298  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

Magda  in  answer  to  both  letters  railed  at  him  as 
follows,  — 

MOST  BELOVED  BARTER,  — We  were  married  before  the 
holy  altar !  May  God  punish  thee !  Thou  art  a  fool  thyself, 
Pagan,  for  in  company  with  Chestnuts  thou  art  murdering 
a  Catholic  people.  Thou  dost  not  understand  that  the 
Chestnuts  are  Lutherans,  and  thou,  a  Catholic,  art  helping 
them.  Thou  wish'st  war,  lazy-bones,  for  thou  canst  do 
nothing  but  fight  and  drink  and  kill  people,  and  not  ob- 
serve fasts  but  burn  churches.  God  knows  that  thou 'It 
be  burned  in  hell  if  thou  boast  of  thy  deeds,  and  hast  pity 
neither  for  old  people  nor  children.  Remember,  sheep, 
what  is  written  for  the  Polish  people  in  the  holy  faith 
with  golden  letters  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  the 
last  day  of  judgment  when  the  Highest  God  will  have  no 
mercy  for  such  fellows,  and  restrain  thyself,  Turk,  lest 
thou  smash  thy  head.  I  send  thee  five  thalers,  though  I 
am  here  in  misery  and  know  not  what  to  do,  and  the 
household  is  falling  away.  I  embrace  thee,  dearest  Bartek. 

MAGDA. 

The  teachings  contained  in  this  letter  made  small 
impression  on  Bartek.  "  Women  don't  know  service," 
thought  he  to  himself,  "  but  are  meddlesome."  And  he 
fought  on  in  old  fashion.  He  distinguished  himself  in 
almost  every  battle,  so  that  finally  eyes  of  higher  rank 
than  those  of  Stein metz  fell  on  him.  At  last,  when 
the  Poznan  regiments,  wellnigh  annihilated,  were  sent 
to  the  interior  of  Germany,  he  at  the  advice  of  the 
under-omcer  sent  in  a  petition  and  remained.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  he  was  outside  Paris. 

His  letters  were  full  of  contempt  now  for  the  French. 
"  In  every  battle  they  race  away  from  a  man  like  hares," 
wrote  he  to  Magda.  And  he  wrote  the  truth  !  But  the 
siege  did  not  suit  his  taste  greatly.  He  had  to  lie  in 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  x  299 

the  trenches  whole  days  before  Paris,  and  listen  to  the 
thunder  of  artillery,  often  to  make  breastworks  and  be 
drenched.  Besides,  he  was  sorry  for  his  former  regiment. 
In  the  one  to  which  he  was  transferred  now  as  a  volun- 
teer he  was  surrounded  for  the  greater  part  by  Germans. 
Of  German  he  knew  a  little,  for  he  had  learned  some 
at  the  mill,  but  he  knew  it  poorly.  Now  he  began  to 
talk  freely.  Still  they  called  him  in  the  regiment,  Ein 
polnischer  Ochs,  and  only  his  strong  back  and  terrible 
fists  saved  him  from  their  biting  jests.  Still,  after  a 
number  of  battles  he  acquired  the  respect  of  these  new 
comrades,  and  began  to  grow  used  to  them  slowly.  At 
last  he  was  looked  on  as  one  of  them,  he  had  covered 
the  regiment  with  glory  to  such  a  degree.  Bartek  would 
have  held  it  an  insult  at  all  times  to  be  called  a  German 
(Niemets),  but  in  distinction  to  the  French  he  called  him- 
self "ein  Deutscher."  That  seemed  to  him  something 
altogether  different;  and,  besides,  he  did  not  wish  to 
appear  worse  than  others.  There  was  an  event,  however, 
which  would  have  given  him  much  to  think  over,  had 
thinking  been  easier  for  his  heroic  mind.  On  a  time 
some  men  of  his  regiment  were  sent  against  Volunteer- 
riflemen,  Franc-tireurs.  They  made  an  ambush,  and  the 
riflemen  fell  into  it.  But  this  time  Bartek  did  not  see 
the  red  caps  flying  at  the  first  shots,  for  the  detachment 
was  composed  of  old  soldiers,  the  remnant  of  some  reg- 
iments in  a  foreign  legion.  When  surrounded,  they 
defended  themselves  desperately,  and  at  last  rushed  for- 
ward to  open  with  the  bayonet  a  way  through  the  encir- 
cling ring  of  Prussian  soldiers.  They  fought  with  such 
fury  that  some  of  them  broke  through.  Above  all,  they 
did  not  let  themselves  be  taken  alive,  knowing  the  fate 
which  awaited  volunteers  after  capture.  Therefore  the 
company  in  which  Bartek  served  took  only  two  prisoners. 


300  BARTER   THE    VICTOR. 

In  the  evening  these  two  men  were  placed  in  a  room  in 
the  forester's  house.  They  were  to  be  shot  on  the  follow- 
ing morning.  Bartek  was  stationed  as  guard  over  the 
bound  prisoners  in  a  room  which  had  a  broken  window. 

One  of  the  prisoners  was  a  man  not  young,  with  iron- 
gray  hair  and  a  face  indifferent  to  everything.  The 
other  seemed  twenty  and  a  few  years ;  his  bright  mus- 
taches were  barely  visible  ;  he  was  more  like  a  woman 
in  the  face  than  a  man. 

"  Yes,  here  is  the  end,"  said  the  young  man,  after  a 
while ;  "  a  bullet  in  the  forehead,  and  all  is  over." 

Bartek  quivered  so  that  the  musket  rattled  in  his 
hand.  The  young  man  spoke  Polish. 

"  It  is  all  one  to  me,"  said  the  other,  with  unwilling 
voice,  — "  as  God  lives,  all  one.  I  have  struggled  so 
long  that  I  have  enough." 

Bartek's  heart  beat  under  his  uniform  more  quickly 
every  moment. 

"  Listen,"  continued  the  older  ;  "  there  is  no  help.  If 
thou  art  afraid,  think  of  something  else,  or  lie  down  to 
sleep.  Life  is  wretched!  As  God  is  dear  to  me,  it  is 
all  one." 

"I  am  sorry  for  my  mother,"  answered  the  younger 
one,  gloomily. 

And  wishing  evidently  to  overcome  his  emotion  or  to 
deceive  himself,  he  began  to  whistle.  Suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  cried  out  in  deep  despair,  — 

"  May  the  thunderbolt  strike  me  !  I  did  not  even  take 
farewell." 

"  Thou  didst  run  away  from  home  ? " 

"  I  did.  I  thought :  They  will  beat  the  Germans,  it 
will  be  better  for  the  people  of  Poznan." 

"And  I  thought  so  too;  but  now  —  " 

The  old  man  waved  his  hand,  and  finished  by  saying 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  301 

something  in  a  low  voice ;  but  the  sound  of  the  wind 
drowned  his  words.  The  night  was  cold.  Fine  rain 
swept  forward  in  waves  from  time  to  time ;  the  neighbor- 
ing forest  was  black  as  a  mourning  robe.  In  the  room 
the  wind  whistled  in  the  corners,  and  howled  in  the 
chimney  like  a  dog.  The  lamp,  placed  high  above  the 
window  so  the  wind  might  not  quench  it,  cast  abundant 
but  flickering  light  on  the  room.  Bartek,  who  stood 
under  the  lamp  by  the  window,  was  buried  in  darkness. 

And  perhaps  it  was  better  that  the  prisoners  did  not 
see  his  face.  Wonderful  things  were  happening  to  the 
man.  At  first  astonishment  took  possession  of  him ;  he 
stared  at  the  prisoners,  and  tried  to  understand  what  they 
were  saying.  They  had  come  to  beat  the  Germans  so 
that  it  might  go  better  with  the  Poznan  people ;  and  he 
had  beaten  the  French  so  that  it  might  go  better  with  the 
Poznan  people  !  And  those  two  men  will  be  shot  in  the 
morning.  What  does  this  mean  ?  What  is  he,  poor 
fellow,  to  think  of  this  ?  And  if  he  were  to  speak  to 
them,  —  if  he  were  to  tell  them  that  he  is  of  their  people, 
that  he  is  sorry  for  them  ?  Something  seized  him  all  at 
once  by  the  throat.  And  what  will  he  tell  them,  —  that 
he  will  save  them  ?  Then  he  will  be  shot !  Hei  to  the 
rescue !  What  is  happening  to  him  ?  Pity  is  so  throt- 
tling him  that  he  cannot  stand  in  one  place. 

A  certain  terrible  sadness  settles  on  him  from  afar, 
from  some  place,  from  Pognembin.  Pity,  a  strange  guest 
in  a  soldier's  heart,  is  crying  to  him  :  "  Bartek,  rescue 
thy  own  people ;  these  are  thy  own."  And  the  heart  is 
tearing  itself  away  to  his  cottage,  to  Magda,  to  Pognem- 
bin, and  tearing  itself  away  in  such  wise  as  never  before. 
He  has  had  enough  of  that  France,  of  that  war,  and  of 
battles.  Every  moment  he  hears  a  voice  more  distinctly : 
"  Bartek,  save  thy  own  people  ! ''  May  the  earth  swal- 


302  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

low  this  war !  Through  the  broken  window  the  forest  is 
black,  and  it  roars  like  the  pines  in  Pognembin ;  and  in 
that  roar  something  is  crying  again :  "  Bartek,  save  thy 
own  people !  " 

What  is  he  to  do, — flee  with  them  to  the  forest,  or  what  ? 
All  that  Prussian  discipline  had  ever  been  able  to  drive 
into  him  trembled  straightway  at  that  thought.     "  In  the 
name  of  the  Father  and  the  Son,"  —  this  was  to  defend 
himself  from  temptation.    He,  a  soldier,  to  desert  ?   Never ! 
Meanwhile  the  forest  roars  ever  louder,  and  the  wind 
whistles  more  and  more  mournfully. 
The  older  prisoner  speaks  suddenly,  — 
"  But  that  wind  is  as  if  in  autumn  at  home." 
"  Spare  me  !  "  said  the  younger,  in  a  broken  voice. 
But  after  a  while  he  repeated  a  number  of  times,  — 
"  At  home,  at  home,  at  home  !     O  God !  0  God ! " 
A  deep  sigh  was  mingled  with  the  whistling,  and  the 
prisoners  were  lying  in  silence   again.     Fever  began  to 
shake  Bartek. 

It  is  worst  of  all  when  a  man  cannot  tell  what  is  the 
matter  with  him.  Bartek  had  stolen  nothing,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  stolen,  and  as  if  he  feared 
that  they  would  seize  him.  Nothing  was  threatening 
him,  and  still  he  was  terribly  afraid  of  something.  See, 
his  legs  are  trembling  under  him ;  his  musket  weighs 
him  down  fearfully,  and  something  is  choking  him,  some- 
thing which  is  like  a  great  suppressed  wailing.  Is  it  for 
Magda,  or  for  Pognembin  ?  He  is  sorry  for  both  prison- 
ers, but  so  sorry  for  the  younger  one  that  he  knows  not 
what  to  do. 

At  times  it  seems  to  Bartek  that  he  is  sleeping. 
Meanwhile  the  uproar  outside  is  increasing  still  further. 
In  the  whistling  of  the  wind  wonderful  cries  and  voices 
are  growing  louder. 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  303 

All  at  once  every  hair  on  Bartek's  head  stands  under 
his  helmet. 

See  !  out  there  somewhere  in  the  dark,  dripping  depths 
of  the  forest  it  seems  to  him  that  some  one  is  groaning 
and  repeating :  "  At  home,  at  home,  at  home !  " 

Bartek  shudders,  and  strikes  the  butt  of  his  musket  on 
the  floor  to  wake  himself.  In  fact,  he  returns  to  con- 
sciousness. He  looks  around ;  the  prisoners  are  lying  in 
the  corner,  the  lamp  is  glittering,  the  wind  is  howling, 
everything  is  in  order. 

The  light  is  falling  now  thickly  on  the  face  of  the 
younger  prisoner.  He  has  the  face  of  a  child  or  a  maiden. 
But  his  eyes  are  closed.  There  is  straw  under  his  head, 
and  he  looks  as  if  dead  already. 

Since  Bartek  is  Bartek  never  has  sadness  so  dived  into 
him.  Something  is  squeezing  him  tightly  by  the  throat, 
a  weeping  is  going  out  of  his  breast.  Meanwhile  the 
older  prisoner  turns  on  his  side  with  difficulty,  and 
says,  — 

"  Good-night,  Vladek." 

Silence  follows.  An  hour  passes.  Something  really 
painful  has  happened  to  Bartek.  The  wind  is  playing 
like  the  organs  in  Pognembin.  The  prisoners  are  lying 
in  quiet.  Suddenly  the  younger  raises  himself  with  an 
effort,  and  calls,  — 

"Karol!" 

"What?" 

"  Art  sleeping  ? " 

"No." 

"  Listen.  I  'm  afraid ;  say  what  may  please  thee,  but 
I  will  pray." 

"  Pray,  then." 

"  Our  Father,  who  art  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy 
name.  Thy  kingdom  come  —  " 


304  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

Sobbing  interrupted  the  voice  of  the  young  prisoner 
suddenly ;  still  the  broken  voice  was  audible  yet,  — 

"  Thy  —  will  —  be  done  —  " 

"  O  Jesus  !  "  howled  something  in  the  breast  of  Bartek, 
"  0  Jesus  !  " 

No,  he  will  endure  no  longer !  Another  moment,  and 
he  will  cry,  "  I  too  am  a  Pole ! "  Then,  through  the 
window  to  the  forest,  let  happen  what  may  ! 

Suddenly  from  the  direction  of  the  entrance  are  heard 
measured  steps.  That  is  the  patrol,  and  with  him  the 
under-officer.  They  are  changing  guards. 

On  the  morrow  Bartek  was  drunk  from  the  morning 
hour;  the  following  day  also. 

But  on  subsequent  days  new  expeditions  came,  skir- 
mishes, marches,  and  it  is  pleasant  for  me  to  relate  that 
our  hero  returned  to  his  balance.  After  that  night,  how- 
ever, there  remained  with  him  a  little  fondness  for  the 
bottle,  in  which  may  be  found  always  some  savor  and 
ofttimes  forgetfulness.  For  the  rest  he  grew  still  more 
unsparing  in  battle ;  victory  followed  his  footsteps. 


VI. 

AGAIN  some  months  passed.  The  spring  was  well  ad- 
vanced. In  Pognembin  the  cherry-trees  had  blossomed 
in  the  garden,  and  were  covered  with  leaves ;  the  fields 
were  green  with  a  thick  fleece.  On  a  certain  time  Magda 
was  sitting  outside  the  cottage  and  preparing  for  dinner 
shrunken  sprouted  potatoes,  fitter  food  for  cattle  than  for 
men.  But  they  were  before  the  new  ones.  Want  had 
begun  to  look  in  a  little  at  Pognembin.  This  might  be 
known,  too,  from  the  face  of  Magda,  which  was  darkened 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR.  305 

and  full  of  anxiety.  Perhaps,  also,  to  drive  away  this 
anxiety  the  woman,  closing  her  eyes,  was  singing  in  a 
thin,  strained  voice,  — 

"  Oi,  oi,  my  Yasenko  is  at  the  war  !  oi !  he  writes  to  me, 
Oi !  I  write  to  him,  oi!  for  I  am  his  wife." 

The  sparrows  on  the  cherry-trees  were  twittering  as  if 
they  wished  to  drown  her  voice ;  she  while  singing  was 
looking  in  thoughtfulness  now  on  the  dog  sleeping  in  the 
sun,  now  on  the  road  around  the  cottage,  now  on  the  path 
stretching  from  the  road  through  the  garden  and  the  fields. 
Perhaps  Magda  was  looking  on  the  path  for  the  reason 
that  it  reached  across  to  the  station ;  and  God  granted 
that  she  did  not  look  that  day  in  vain.  In  the  distance 
appeared  a  certain  form,  and  the  woman  shaded  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  but  she  could  not  distinguish,  for  the 
rays  dazzled  her ;  but  Lysek  the  dog  woke  up,  raised  his 
head,  barked  a  little,  began  to  smell,  and  to  incline  his 
head  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other.  At  the  same 
time  the  uncertain  words  of  a  song  came  to  Magda's  ears. 
Lysek  sprang  away  at  once,  and  ran  with  all  speed  to 
the  man  drawing  near.  Then  Magda  grew  a  little  pale. 

"  Bartek,  isn't  it  Bartek  ?" 

She  stood  up  quickly,  so  that  the  dish  with  the  pota- 
toes rolled  on  the  ground.  Now  there  was  no  doubt. 
Lysek  sprang  to  the  breast  of  the  newly-arrived.  The 
woman  rushed  forward,  crying  with  all  her  strength  and 
with  joy, — 

"  Bartek  !  Bartek  ! " 

"  Magda !  it  is  I ! "  cried  Bartek,  putting  his  palm  to 
his  lips  and  hurrying  his  steps. 

He  opened  the  gate,  missed  the  bolt,  staggered,  almost 
fell,  and  they  dropped  into  each  other's  arms. 

The  woman  began  to  talk  quickly. 

20 


306  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

"But  I  thought  thou  wouldst  never  come  back.  I 
thought  to  myself :  '  They  have  killed  him  ! '  How  art 
thou  ?  Come  into  the  cottage.  Franek  is  at  school. 
The  German  beats  the  children.  The  boy  is  well,  but  he 
has  staring  eyes  like  thee.  Oh,  it  was  time  for  thee  to 
come,  for  there  is  no  help,  —  misery,  I  say,  misery.  The 
poor  cottage  is  rotting  down.  How  art  thou  ?  Oh,  Bartek, 
Bartek !  That  I  should  look  on  thee  again !  What 
trouble  I  had  here  with  the  hay !  The  Cherrnenitskis 
helped  me,  but,  0  my  God !  —  And  art  thou  all  well  ? 
But  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  glad !  God  guarded  thee. 
Come  in.  Oh,  for  God's  sake!  is  this  Bartek,  or  not 
Bartek  ?  But  what  is  the  matter  with  thee  ?  Help  ! " 

Magda  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  a  long  scar 
stretching  over  Bartek's  face,  across  the  left  temple  and 
cheek  to  his  beard. 

" That's  nothing.  A  cuirassier  touched  me  there,  but 
I  paid  him.  I  have  been  in  the  hospital." 

"  O  Jesus  ! " 

"  Ei,  nothing." 

"  Thou  art  as  thin  as  death." 

"  Euhig  (be  quiet)  !  "  answered  Bartek. 

He  was  swarthy  and  wounded,  a  real  victor.  Withal 
he  was  tottering  on  his  feet. 

"  Art  thou  drunk  ? " 

"lam  weak  yet." 

He  was  weak,  it  is  true,  but  drunk  also ;  exhausted  as 
he  was,  one  measure  of  vodka  was  enough.  Bartek,  how- 
ever, had  drunk  at  the  station  something  like  four.  But 
he  had  the  spirit  and  bearing  of  a  real  victor.  Such  a 
mien  he  had  never  had  before. 

"  Ruhig  !  "  repeated  he.  "  We  have  finished  the  krieg 
(war).  Now  I  am  a  lord,  dost  understand  ?  Seest  this  ? " 
Here  he  pointed  to  the  crosses  and  medals.  "  Knowst 


BARTEK  THE   VICTOR.  307 

who  I  am  ?  He  ?  Links,  rechts.  Heu,  S'troh  !  Halt ! 
(left,  right,  hay,  straw  ! ) " 

He  thundered  out  the  last  halt !  with  such  a  piercing 
voice  that  the  woman  sprang  back  a  number  of  steps. 

"  Hast  gone  mad  ? " 

"  How  art  thou,  Magda  ?  When  I  say  to  thee, '  How 
art  thou  ? '  that  means  '  How  art  thou  ? '  And  knowst 
French,  foolish  woman  ?  musyu,  musyu  !  who  musyu  ?  I 
musyu  !  knowst  ?" 

"  Man,  what  is  the  matter  with  thee  ? " 

"  What 's  that  to  thee  ?  Was  (what)  ?  Done  diner 
(donnez  diner,  —  give  dinner).  Dost  understand  ? " 

On  Magda's  forehead  a  storm  began  to  collect. 

"  In  what  language  art  thou  bellowing  ?  What,  knowst 
thou  not  Polish  ?  Ha,  thou  chestnut,  I  was  right  to  say  ! 
What  have  they  made  of  thee  ? " 

"  Give  me  something  to  eat ! " 

"  March  into  the  cottage." 

Every  command  made  an  impression  on  Bartek  which 
he  could  in  no  way  resist.  When  he  heard  then  "  march  " 
he  straightened  himself,  stretched  his  arms  down  along 
his  hips,  and  making  a  half  turn  marched  in  the  indicated 
direction.  On  the  threshold  he  recovered,  and  began  to 
look  at  Magda  with  astonishment. 

"Well,  what 's  the  matter,  Magda,  what 's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Forward,  inarch ! " 

He  entered  the  cottage,  but  fell  at  the  threshold.  The 
vodka  began  then  indeed  to  go  to  his  head ;  he  fell  to 
singing  and  looking  around  the  cottage  for  Franek.  He 
even  said,"  Morgen,  Kerl!" though  Franek  was  not  there. 
Then  he  laughed,  made  one  long  step  and  two  very  short 
ones,  shouted  hurrah,  and  stretched  his  whole  length  on 
the  floor. 

In  the  evening  he  woke  up  sober,  refreshed,  greeted 


308  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

Franek,  and  taking  some  tens  of  pfennigs  from  Magda 
he  made  a  triumphant  campaign  to  the  dririking-shop. 
The  fame  of  his  deeds  had  already  preceded  him  in 
Pognembin,  where  some  soldiers  of  the  other  companies 
of  that  same  regiment,  having  returned  earlier,  told  of  his 
prowess  at  Gravelotte  and  Sedan.  At  present,  when  the 
news  went  out  that  the  victor  was  in  the  shop,  all  his 
old  comrades  hurried  to  see  him. 

Our  Bartek  sits  there  at  the  table.  No  one  recognizes 
him.  He  who  had  been  so  submissive  in  old  times  beats 
the  table  with  his  fist  now,  swells  up  like  a  gobbler,  and 
gobbles  like  a  gobbler. 

"  Do  ye  remember,  boys,  how  I  warmed  up  the  French- 
men, and  what  Steinmetz  said  ?  " 
"  Why  should  n't  we  remember  ? " 
"  People  spoke  in  favor  of  the  French,  frightened  us 
with  them ;  but  that  is  a  weak  people.      Was  (what)  ! 
They  are  salad.     They  ride  like  hares  and  run  like  hares, 
and  they  don't  drink  beer,  only  wine." 
"  Is  that  true  ? " 

"  When  we  burned  a  village  they  folded  their  hands 
and  cried  out  pitie,pitie  !  which  seems  to  mean  that  they 
will  give  drink,  but  in  that  tongue  it  means  to  spare 
them.  But  we  paid  no  attention." 

"Can  any  one  understand  what  they  chatter?"  asked  a 
young  fellow. 

"  Thou  couldst  not,  for   thou   art  stupid,  but  I  can. 
Done  dipen  (give  bread),  —  dost  understand  ?  " 
"  What  is  that  ? " 

"  But  have  ye  seen  Paris  ?  There  were  battles  there 
one  after  another  ;  but  we  won  them  all.  They  have  no 
good  leaders.  People  say  that  too,  and  the  officers  are 
fools,  and  the  generals  are  fools." 

Matsei  Kerz,  an  old,  wise  peasant  in  Pognembin,  began 


BARTEK   THE   VICTOR.  309 

to  shake  his  head.  "  Oi,  the  Germans  have  conquered 
in  a  terrible  war;  they  have  conquered,  and  we  have 
helped  them.  But  what  will  come  of  that  to  us  God 
alone  knows." 

Bartek  stared  at  him.     "  What  do  you  say  ? " 

"The  Germans  before  this  would  pay  no  regard  to  us, 
and  now  they  have  stuck  up  their  noses  as  if  even  God 
were  not  above  them.  And  they  will  insult  us  more 
than  ever,  for  they  are  doing  so  already." 

"  That  is  not  true  ! "  said  Bartek. 

In  Pognembin,  old  Kerz  had  such  weight  that  the 
whole  village  thought  according  to  his  head,  and  it  was 
insolence  to  contradict  him ;  but  Bartek  was  now  a 
victor,  himself  an  authority.  Still  they  looked  on  him 
with,  astonishment,  and  even  with  a  certain  indignation. 

"  What !  wilt  thou  dispute  with  Matsei  ?  What  mean- 
est thou  ? " 

"  What  is  Matsei  to  me !  I  have  spoken  with  men 
who  are  not  the  like  of  him.  Do  ye  understand  ?  Have 
I  not  spoken  with  Steinmetz  ?  Was !  But  whatever 
Matsei  invents  is  bosh.  Now  it  will  be  better  for  us." 

Matsei  looked  awhile  at  the  victor. 

"  Oi,  but  thou  art  stupid  !  "  said  he. 

Bartek  struck  the  table  with  his  fist  till  all  the  goblets 
and  mugs  rattled, — 

"Still  der  Kerl  da!  Heu,  Stroh!  (shut  up,  fellow, 
there  !  hay,  straw !)  " 

"Be  quiet;  don't  make  an  uproar.  Put  the  question, 
thou  fool,  to  some  his  grace,  some  lord,  and  thou  wilt  find 
out." 

"  Was  his  grace  at  the  war,  or  was  his  lordship  there  ? 
But  I  was  at  the  war.  Don't  believe  him,  boys ;  now 
they  will  begin  to  respect  us.  Who  won  the  battle  ? 
We  won  it ;  I  won  it.  Now  whatever  I  ask  for  they  will 


310  BARTEK  THE   VICTOR. 

give  ;  if  I  wanted  to  be  an  heir  in  France  I  should  be 
one.  The  Government  knows  well  who  beat  the  French 
best ;  but  our  regiments  were  the  best ;  thus  it  was 
written  in  the  orders.  Now  the  Poles  are  on  top,  do  ye 
understand  ? " 

Kerz  waved  his  hand,  rose,  and  went  out.  Bartek 
had  won  the  victory  on  the  field  of  politics  also.  The 
young  fellows  who  remained  gazed  at  him  now  as  at  a 
rainbow. 

"  But  whatever  I  might  ask  for  they  would  give.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  me  then  !  Old  Kerz  is  a  fool,  do  ye 
understand  ?  The  Government  commands  to  fight,  then 
fight !  Who  will  make  light  of  me,  —  a  German  ?  But 
what  is  this  ?  " 

Here  he  pointed  to  his  crosses  and  medals  again. 

"  But  for  whom  did  I  beat  the  French,  —  not  for  the 
Germans,  was  it  ?  I  am  now  better  than  a  German,  for 
no  German  has  so  many  of  these.  Give  us  beer !  I 
talked  with  Steinmetz,  and  I  talked  with  Podbielski. 
Give  beer  ! " 

Gradually  they  prepared  for  a  drinking  bout.     Bartek 

began  to  sing,  — 

"  Drinks,  drinks,  drinks  1 
While  in  my  purse 
A  thaler  clinks." 

Suddenly  he  drew  out  of  his  pocket  a  handful  of 
pfennigs. 

"Take  these,  —  I  am  a  lord  now, —  do  ye  not  want 
them  ?  Oh,  not  this  kind  of  money  did  we  get  in  France, 
but  it  is  gone.  Little  that  we  did  n't  burn  up  and  kill. 
God  knows  not  some  — Frantsirerov  (Franc-tireurs)." 

The  humor  of  'men  in  drink  changes  very  suddenly. 
Unexpectedly  Bartek  gathered  the  money  from  the  table 
and  began  to  cry  piteously,  — 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  311 

"  God  be  merciful  to  my  sinful  soul ! " 

Then  he  placed  his  elbows  on  the  table,  hid  his  face  in 
his  paws,  and  was  silent. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  thee  ? "  asked  some  of  the 
tipsy  ones. 

"  How  am  I  to  blame  ? "  muttered  Bartek,  gloomily. 
"  They  came  themselves.  But  I  was  sorry  for  them,  be- 
cause they  were  both  of  my  people.  0  God,  be  merciful ! 
One  of  them  was  as  ruddy  as  the  dawn  then,  but  next 
morning  he  was  pale  as  a  kerchief,  and  while  still  alive 
they  were  covered  with  earth.  —  Vodka  !  " 

A  moment  of  gloomy  silence  followed.  The  men 
looked  at  one  another  in  astonishment. 

"  What  is  he  saying  ? "  asked  some  one. 

"  He  is  saying  something  to  his  conscience." 

"  War  makes  a  man  drink,"  muttered  Bartek. 

He  drank  vodka  once,  and  a  second  time.  He  sat 
awhile  in  silence,  then  spat ;  and  good  humor  returned 
to  him  suddenly. 

"  But  have  ye  talked  with  Steinmetz  ?  I  have  talked 
with  him.  Hurrah  !  Drink  !  Who  will  pay  ?  I ! " 

"  Thou  wilt  pay,  drunkard,  thou  ! "  called  the  voice  of 
Magda ;  "  but  I  '11  pay  thee,  never  fear." 

Bartek  looked  at  the  newly-arrived  woman  with  glassy 
eyes. 

"  But  hast  thou  talked  with  Steinmetz  ?  Who  art 
thou  ? " 

Magda  instead  of  answering  him  turned  to  his  sensi- 
tive audience  and  fell  to  lamenting. 

"  Oh,  people,  people,  ye  see  my  shame  and  misfortune. 
He  came  home.  I  was  glad  as  if  something  good  had 
come ;  but  he  came  drunk,  and  forgot  God,  forgot  Polish. 
He  lay  down  to  sleep,  grew  sober ;  and  now  he  is  drinking 
again,  and  pays  with  my  sweat.  Where  didst  thou  get 


312  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

that  money ;  was  that  not  my  toil,  my  blood-sweat  ?  Oh, 
people,  people,  he  is  no  longer  a  Catholic,  no  longer  a 
man.  He  is  a  raging  German,  he  chatters  German,  he  lies 
in  wait  to  do  evil ;  he  is  a  turn-coat,  he  is  a  — 

Here  the  woman  was  covered  with  tears ;  then  she 
raised  her  voice  an  octave  higher,  — 

"  He  was  stupid  but  good.  Now  what  have  they  made 
of  him  ?  I  waited  for  thee  evenings,  I  waited  for  thee 
mornings,  and  waited  till  thou  didst  come  home.  From 
no  place  consolation,  from  no  place  mercy.  God  of 
might !  God  of  patience !  Mayst  thou  turn  German 
altogether ! " 

She  finished  the  last  words  so  sorrowfully  that  she 
was  almost  whining.  But  Bartek  in  answer  said,  — 

"  Be  quiet,  or  I  will  rush  at  thee ! " 

"  Strike,  cut  off  my  head,  cut  it  off  right  away,  kill, 
murder ! "  called  the  woman,  stubbornly,  and  stretching 
out  her  neck,  turned  to  the  men,  — 

"  And  you  men  look  at  him  doing  it." 

But  the  men  began  to  go  out.  Soon  the  shop  was 
empty ;  only  Bartek  remained,  and  the  woman  with  her 
neck  stretched  out. 

"  Why  stretch  out  thy  neck  like  a  goose  ?  Go  to  the 
cottage,"  muttered  Bartek. 

"  Cut  it  off ! "  repeated  Magda. 

"  But  I  will  not  cut  it  off,"  answered  Bartek,  and  he 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

Here  the  shopkeeper,  wishing  to  put  an  end  to  the  in- 
cident, quenched  the  only  candle.  There  was  darkness 
and  silence.  After  a  time  in  the  darkness  was  heard  the 
whining  voice  of  Magda,  — 

"  Cut  off  my  head." 

"  I  will  not  cut  it  off,"  answered  the  triumphant  voice 
of  Bartek. 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR.  313 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  two  forms  were  visible  going 
from  the  shop  toward  the  cottages ;  one  of  them  in  ad- 
vance, was  lamenting  audibly.  That  was  Magda.  After 
her,  with  drooping  head,  went  submissively  enough  the 
victor  of  Gravelotte  and  Sedan. 


VII. 

BARTEK  came  home,  but  so  weak  that  he  could  not 
work  for  a  number  of  days.  That  was  a  great  misfortune 
for  the  whole  housekeeping,  which  had  urgent  need  of  a 
man's  hand.  Magda  did  the  best  she  could,  —  worked 
from  morning  till  night.  Her  neighbors  the  Chemer- 
nitskis  helped  her  according  to  their  power ;  but  all  that 
was  not  enough,  and  the  place  was  inclining  somewhat 
toward  ruin.  She  had  gone  in  debt  too  to  the  colonist 
Just,  a  German,  who  in  his  time  had  bought  from  the 
lord  some  acres  of  poor  land,  and  had  now  the  best  place 
in  the  village,  and  ready  money,  which  he  lent  at  rather 
high  interest.  He  lent  first  of  all  to  Pan  Yarzynski, 
whose  name  Yarzynski  was  gleaming  in  the  "  Golden 
Book,"  but  who  on  that  account  had  to  maintain  the 
splendor  of  his  house  in  befitting  style ;  but  Just  lent 
also  to  peasants.  Magda  owed  him,  for  about  half  a 
year,  a  few  tens  of  thalers,  some  of  which  she  expended 
on  the  land,  and  some  she  sent  to  Bartek.  That  however 
was  nothing.  God  had  given  a  good  harvest,  and  from 
the  coming  fruits  the  debt  might  be  paid  if  there  were 
only  hands  to  labor.  Unfortunately  Bartek  could  not 
work.  Magda  was  not  greatly  willing  to  believe  this, 
and  went  to  the  priest  to  take  counsel  as  to  how  she 
might  rouse  the  man  ;  but  he  was  really  ailing.  Breath 
failed  him  when  he  labored  a  little,  and  his  back  ached. 


314  BARTEK  THE   VICTOR. 

He  sat  whole  days  therefore  before  the  cottage,  and 
smoked  a  porcelain  pipe  on  which  was  a  portrait  of  Bis- 
marck, in  a  white  uniform  and  a  cuirassier's  helmet. 
Bartek  looked  on  the  world  with  the  wearied  sleepy  eye 
of  a  man  out  of  whose  bones  toil  has  not  gone  yet.  At 
the  same  time  he  pondered  a  little  over  the  war,  a  little 
over  victories,  a  little  over  Magda,  a  little  over  every- 
thing, a  little  over  nothing. 

Once  as  he  was  sitting  thus  he  heard  from  a  distance 
the  crying  of  Franek. 

Franek  was  coming  from  school,  and  bellowing  to  be 
heard  all  over  the  place.  Bartek  took  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth. 

"  Well,  Franek,  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  But  what  dost  thou  care  ?  "  said  Franek,  sobbing. 

"Why  bellow?" 

"  Why  should  n't  I  bellow  when  I  got  a  slap  on  the 
face?" 

"  Who  gave  thee  a  slap  on  the  face  ? " 

"  Who,  unless  Pan  Boege  !  " 

Pan  Boege  performed  the  duties  of  teacher  in  Pog- 
nembin. 

"  And  what  right  has  he  to  beat  thee  on  the  face  ? " 

"  He  has,  for  he  beat  me." 

Magda,  who  was  digging  in  the  garden,  came  in 
through  the  fence,  and  with  a  spade  in  her  hand  came  up 
to  the  boy. 

"  What  hast  thou  done  ? "  asked  she. 

"  Nothing.  But  Boege  called  me  a  Polish  pig,  slapped 
me  on  the  face,  and  said  that  now  as  they  had  beaten  the 
French  they  would  stamp  on  us,  for  they  are  stronger. 
I  did  nothing  to  him,  but  he  asked  who  was  the  greatest 
person  in  the  world,  and  I  said  '  The  Holy  Father.'  Pan 
Boege  slapped  me  on  the  face.  I  began  to  cry,  and  he 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR.  315 

called  me  a  Polish  pig,  and  said  that  now  as  they  had 
beaten  the  French  —  " 

Franek  began  to  repeat  what  he  had  said  before :  "  and 
he  said  and  I  said."  At  last  Magda  covered  his  face  with 
her  hand,  and  turning  to  Bartek,  cried  out,  — 

"Dost  hear,  dost  hear  ?  Go  thou  and  beat  the  French 
and  then  let  the  German  beat  thy  child  as  he  would  the 
dog  there  !  Go  thou  !  fight !  Let  a  Schwab  beat  thy 
child !  Now  thou  hast  a  reward,  thou  lout." 

Here  Magda,  moved  by  her  own  eloquence,  began  to  cry 
too,  as  well  as  Franek.  Bartek  stared,  opened  his  mouth. 
and  was  amazed  so  much  that  he  could  not  speak,  and 
above  all  could  not  understand  what  had  happened. 
How  is  that  ?  But  his  victories  ?  He  sat  awhile  longer 
in  silence.  On  a  sudden  something  gleamed  in  his  eyes, 
blood  rushed  to  his  face.  Amazement,  as  well  as  terror, 
frequently  passes  into  rage  with  simple  people.  Bartek 
sprang  up  quickly,  and  rushed  forth  with  set  teeth. 

"  I  '11  talk  to  him  !  "  and  he  went  on.  It  was  not  far. 
The  school  was  right  there  beyond  the  church.  Pan 
Boege  was  standing  at  that  moment  before  his  own  door, 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  pigs,  among  which  he  was  throw- 
ing bits  of  bread.  He  was  a  large  man  about  fifty  years 
old,  strong  yet  as  an  oak.  He  was  not  over  thick ;  but 
he  had  a  very  full  face,  and  in  his  face  were  great  fish 
eyes  with  an  expression  of  boldness  and  energy.  Bartek 
came  up  very  near  him. 

"  Why  dost  thou,  German,  beat  my  child  ?  Was  ! " 
inquired  he. 

Pan  Boege  stepped  back  a  few  yards,  measured  him 
with  his  eyes  without  a  shadow  of  fear,  and  said  phleg- 
matically :  "  Be  off !  " 

"  Why  didst  thou  beat  my  child  ? "  repeated  Bartek. 

"I'll  beat  thee  too,  Polish  trash  !     Now  we'll  show 


316  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

thee  who  is  lord  here.  Go  to  the  devil !  Go  and  com- 
plain to  the  court !  Be  off !  " 

Bartek,  seizing  the  teacher  by  the  shoulders,  began  to 
shake  him  powerfully,  crying  with  hoarse  voice,  — 

"  Knowest  who  I  am  ?  Knowest  who  pounded  the 
French  ?  Knowest  who  talked  with  Steinmetz  ?  Why 
beat  my  child,  Schwab,  lout  ? " 

The  fish  eyes  of  Pan  Boege  were  coming  out  of  his 
head  not  less  than  Bartek' s ;  but  he  was  a  strong  man, 
and  determined  to  free  himself  from  the  aggressor  with 
one  blow. 

This  blow  was  a  powerful  slap  on  the  face  of  the  victor 
of  Gravelotte  and  Sedan.  Thereupon  Bartek  lost  self- 
control.  Boege's  head  was  shaken  with  two  heavy 
movements  reminding  one  of  the  movement  of  a  pen- 
dulum, with  this  difference,  —  that  the  shaking  was 
astonishingly  quick.  In  Bartek  the  terrible  crusher  of 
the  Turkos  and  Zouaves  was  aroused  anew.  In  vain  did 
the  twelve-year  old  Oscar,  son  of  Boege,  a  boy  strong  like 
his  father,  hasten  to  help  him.  A  struggle  began,  short 
and  terrible,  in  which  the  son  fell  to  the  ground  and  the 
father  felt  himself  raised  in  the  air.  Bartek,  with  arms 
stretched  aloft,  bore  him,  whither  he  knew  riot  himself. 
Unfortunately  there  stood  near  the  house  a  barrel  of 
swill  industriously  poured  in  for  the  pigs  by  Pani  Boege ; 
and  behold  there  was  a  plash  in  the  barrel,  and  in  a 
moment  were  seen  the  legs  of  Boege  sticking  out  of  it 
and  kicking  violently.  Boege's  wife  rushed  out  of  the 
house,  — 

"Help,  rescue!" 

The  woman  with  presence  of  mind  turned  the  barrel 
over  in  a  moment  and  spilled  out  her  husband  together 
with  the  swill.  The  German  colonists  hastened  from  the 
houses  near  by  to  help  their  neighbor. 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR.  317 

A  number  of  Germans  hurled  themselves  on  Bartek 
and  began  to  belabor  him,  some  with  clubs,  others  with 
fists.  A  general  chaos  arose,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to 
distinguish  Bartek  from  his  enemies.  A  number  of 

O 

bodies  were  entangled  in  one  mass  moving  convulsively. 
But  suddenly  from  out  the  mass  of  strugglers  rushed  forth 
Bartek,  wild,  shooting  off  with  all  power  toward  the  fence. 

The  Germans  sprang  after  him  ;  but  at  the  same  mo- 
ment a  crash  in  the  fence  was  heard,  and  that  instant  a 
strong  pole  was  brandished  in  the  iron  paws  of  Bartek. 
He  turned,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  raging ;  he  raised  his 
hands  with  the  club  in  the  air;  all  fled.  Bartek  fol- 
lowed them.  Happily  he  overtook  no  man.  Presently 
he  came  to  himself,  and  began  to  retreat  toward  his 
cottage.  Ah,  had  he  the  French  before  him  history 
would  have  immortalized  that  retreat ! 

It  was  as  follows  :  The  attackers,  to  the  number  of 
twelve  men,  rallied  and  pressed  again  on  Bartek.  He 
retreated  slowly,  like  a  wild  boar  pressed  by  dogs.  At 
times  he  turned  and  halted ;  then  the  pursuers  restrained 
themselves.  The  club  had  won  their  perfect  respect. 

But  they  threw  stones.  One  of  these  stones  wounded 
Bartek  in  the  forehead.  Blood  covered  his  eyes.  He 
felt  that  he  was  growing  weak.  He  staggered  once  and 
a  second  time,  dropped  the  club,  and  fell. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  cried  the  colonists. 

But  before  they  came  up  Bartek  had  risen ;  that  re- 
strained them.  The  wounded  wolf  might  be  dangerous 
yet.  Moreover  the  first  cottages  were  not  far,  and  from 
a  distance  were  to  be  seen  a  number  of  Polish  peasants 
running  with  all  speed  to  the  scene  of  combat.  The 
colonists  withdrew  to  their  houses. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  those  who  ran  up. 

"Dressing  the  Germans,"  said  Bartek,  and  he  fainted. 


318  BARTER  THE   VICTOR. 


VIII. 

THE  affair  assumed  threatening  proportions.  The  Ger- 
man papers  contained  rousing  articles  about  the  perse- 
cutions which  peaceable  Germans  were  suffering  from 
the  barbarous  and  ignorant  mass  excited  by  agitation 
against  the  State  and  by  religious  fanaticism.  Boege  be- 
came a  hero.  He,  the  teacher  mild  and  gentle,  spreading 
enlightenment  along  the  distant  borders  of  the  State ; 
he,  the  true  missionary  of  culture  among  barbarians,  was 
the  first  to  fall  a  victim  to  their  fury.  It  was  fortunate 
that  behind  him  were  a  hundred  millions  of  Germans 
who  will  not  permit,  etc. 

Bartek  knew  not  what  a  storm  was  gathering  above  his 
head ;  but  he  was  of  good  heart,  he  felt  sure  of  winning 
before  the  court.  Boege  had  beaten  his  child  and  had 
struck  him  first,  and  afterward  so  many  had  attacked  him. 
He  had  to  defend  himself  of  course.  Besides,  they  opened 
his  head  with  a  stone.  Whose  head  ?  The  head  of  the 
man  distinguished  in  the  orders  of  the  day,  of  the  man 
who  had  "  gained "  the  battle  of  Gravelotte,  who  had 
talked  with  Steinmetz  himself,  and  who  had  so  many 
crosses.  He  could  not  in  truth  understand  how  the  Ger- 
mans could  know  all  this  and  still  work  such  injustice 
on  him ;  nor  how  Boege  could  promise  the  men  o£  Pog- 
nembin  that  the  Germans  would  trample  them  now 
because  they,  the  men  of  Pognembin,  had  beaten  the 
French  so  valiantly  whenever  opportunity  offered.  But 
as  to  himself  he  was  certain  that  the  court  and  the  Gov- 
ernment would  take  his  part.  They  at  least  will  know 
who  he  is,  what  he  has  done  in  the  war ;  even  if  no  one 
else  does,  Steinmetz  will  take  his  part.  Besides,  Bartek 


BARTER   THE    VICTOR:  319 

has  grown  poor  through  the  war ;  his  cottage  is  mort- 
gaged. They  will  not  deny  him  justice. 

Meanwhile  the  police  come  to  Pognembin  for  Bartek. 
They  expected  to  find  terrible  resistance,  for  they  came 
with  five  loaded  muskets.  They  were  mistaken.  Bartek 
did  not  think  of  resistance.  They  ordered  him  to  sit  in 
a  wagon.  He  sat  in  it.  Magda  was  in  despair,  only  she 
repeated  persistently,  — 

"Oh,  there  was  need  of  thy  fighting  the  French 
so !  thou  hast  got  it  now,  poor  man,  —  thou  hast  got 
it!" 

"  Be  quiet,  foolish  woman,"  said  Bartek  ;  and  he  smiled 
along  the  road  gladly  enough  at  passers-by. 

"  I  will  show  them  who  did  the  injustice ! "  cried  he 
from  the  wagon. 

And  with  his  crosses  on  his  breast  he  went  to  the 
court  like  a  conqueror.  In  fact,  the  court  showed  itself 
gracious  toward  him;  extenuating  circumstances  were 
found.  Bartek  was  condemned  to  only  three  months' 
imprisonment;  besides  this,  he  was  condemned  to  pay 
one  Hundred  and  fifty  marks  as  a  recompense  to  the 
family  of  Boege  and  to  other  corporeally  injured  col- 
onists. 

"  The  criminal  however,"  said  the  "  Posener  Zeitung  " 
in  the  report  of  the  case,  "  when  the  sentence  was  read  to 
him,  did  not  exhibit  the  least  repentance,  but  burst  out 
with  such  rude  words,  and  began  to  reproach  the  State  so 
shamefully  with  his  pretended  services,  that  there  is  rea- 
son to  wonder  why  the  attorney  present  did  not  begin  a 
new  suit  against  him  for  his  insults  to  the  court  and  the 
German  race." 

Meanwhile  Bartek  in  prison  meditated  calmly  over  his 
deeds  of  Gravelotte,  Sedan,  and  Paris.  We  should  be 
unjust,  however,  were  we  to  say  that  Boege's  act  called 


320  BARTEK   THE    VICTOR. 

forth  no  public  comment.  It  did,  it  did.  On  a  certain 
rainy  morning  some  Polish  member  in  the  German  Par- 
liament showed  very  eloquently  how  the  treatment  of 
Poles  in  Poznan  had  changed ;  and  that  for  the  bravery 
of  the  Poznan  regiments,  and  the  losses  incurred  by  them 
during  the  war,  it  would  be  proper  to  think  more  of  the 
rights  of  people  in  the  province  of  Poznan ;  finally,  how 
Pan  Boege  of  Pognembin  had  abused  his  position  of 
teacher  by  beating  Polish  children,  calling  them  Polish 
swine,  and  promising  that  after  such  a  war  an  intru- 
sive element  would  trample  under  foot  the  original 
inhabitants. 

While  the  member  was  speaking,  the  rain  was  falling ; 
and  since  on  such  a  day  drowsiness  seizes  men,  the  Con- 
servatives were  yawning ;  the  Centre  —  for  the  Kultur 
Kampf  had  not  begun  yet  —  was  yawning. 

At  last,  in  answer  to  the  Polish  complaint,  the  House 
returned  to  the  order  of  the  day. 

Meanwhile  Bartek  was  sitting  in  prison,  or  rather  lying 
in  the  prison  hospital,  for  from  the  blow  of  the  stone  the 
wound  he  had  received  in  the  war  opened.  When  he 
had  not  the  fever,  he  was  thinking  like  that  turkey  gob- 
bler which  died  from  thought.  Bartek  did  not  die  how- 
ever; still  he  thought  out  nothing.  But  sometimes  in 
moments  which  science  calls  lucid  intervals,  it  came  to 
his  head  that  perhaps  he  had  pounded  the  French  with- 
out need. 

On  Magda  came  grievous  times.  The  fine  had  to  be 
paid ;  there  was  no  place  in  which  to  get  the  money. 
The  priest  of  Pognembin  wanted  to  help  her ;  but  it 
turned  out  that  in  his  treasury  there  were  not  forty 
whole  marks.  The  parish  of  Pognembin  was  a  poor  one ; 
besides,  the  old  man  never  knew  how  his  money  was  ex- 
pended. Pan  Yarzynski  was  not  at  home ;  people  said  that 


BARTER  THE  VICTOR.  321 

he  had  gone  to  court  some  wealthy  young  lady  in  the 
Kingdom.  Magda  knew  not  what  to  do.  An  extension 
of  the  term  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  What  then  ?  To 
sell  the  horse  or  a  cow  ?  and  it  was  just  before  harvest, 
—  the  most  difficult  period.  Grain-cutting  was  at  hand. 
The  woman  needed  money,  and  had  spent  all  her  store  of 
it.  She  wrung  her  hands  in  despair ;  she  sent  a  number 
of  petitions  to  the  court,  asking  for  extension,  recounting 
Bartek's  services.  She  did  not  get  even  an  answer.  The 
term  was  approaching,  and  with  it  an  execution.  She 
prayed  and  prayed,  thinking  bitterly  of  times  before  the 
war  when  they  were  rich,  and  when  Bartek  was  earning 
money  in  winter  at  the  mill.  She  went  to  her  friends  to 
borrow  money ;  but  they  had  none.  The  war  had  paid 
all  with  marks  of  distinction.  To  Just  she  did  not  dare 
to  go,  for  she  was  already  in  debt  to  him,  and  had  not 
paid  even  the  interest.  But  Just  himself  came  to  her 
unexpectedly. 

On  a  certain  afternoon  she  was  sitting  on  the  threshold 
of  her  cottage  doing  nothing,  for  the  strength  had  gone 
out  of  her  from  despair.  She  was  looking  out  at  the 
golden  flies  chasing  through  the  air,  and  she  thought 
how  happy  are  those  insects,  playing  for  themselves,  and 
not  crying.  At  times  she  sighed  heavily,  or  from  her 
pale  lips  came  the  quiet  exclamation,  "  O  God  !  0  God  ! " 
All  at  once  before  the  gate  appeared  the  hanging  nose  of 
Just,  under  which  was  a  hanging  pipe.  Just  called 
out, — 

"  Morgen ! " 

"  How  is  your  health,  Pan  Just  ? " 

"  But  my  money  ? " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  golden  Pan  Just,  be  patient !  What 
shall  I,  poor  woman,  do  ?  They  have  taken  my  man  ; 
I  must  pay  the  fine  for  him.  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 


322  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

Better  die  than  suffer  from  day  to  day  as  I  suffer.  Wait 
a  little,  my  golden  Pan  Just." 

She  burst  into  tears,  and,  bending  down,  kissed  submis- 
sively the  thick  red  hand  of  Pan  Just. 

"  Pan  Yarzynski  will  come ;  I  will  get  money  from  him, 
and  pay  you." 

"  But  how  will  you  pay  the  fine  ? " 

"  How  do  I  know  unless  I  sell  a  cow  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  will  lend  you  more  money." 

"  May  the  Lord  God  reward  you,  my  golden  Pan. 
Although  a  Lutheran,  you  are  a  good  man ;  I  say  indeed 
that  if  other  Germans  were  like  you,  a  man  might  bless 
them." 

"  But  I  will  not  give  it  without  interest." 

"  I  know,  I  know." 

"  Then  you  write  me  one  note  for  all  you  owe." 

"  I  will,  golden  Pan  ;  God  reward  you  even  for  that !  " 

"  I  will  be  in  town,  and  we  will  draw  up  the  paper." 

He  went  to  town,  and  had  the  paper  drawn  up ;  but 
Magda  went  first  to  take  counsel  with  the  priest.  But 
what  counsel  was  there  to  be  taken  ?  The  priest  said 
that  the  term  was  too  short,  that  the  interest  was  too 
high,  and  grieved  greatly  that  Pan  Yarzynski  was  not  at 
home  ;  for  if  he  had  been  at  home,  he  might  help.  But 
Magda  could  not  wait  till  the  court  sold  her  effects,  and 
was  forced  to  accept  Just's  conditions. 

She  went  in  debt  three  hundred  marks  ;  that  is,  twice 
the  amount  of  the  "  fine,"  for  she  needed  some  money  in 
the  house  to  carry  on  affairs.  Bartek,  who  had  to  confirm 
the  act  with  his  own  signature,  to  give  it  validity,  signed 
it.  Magda  for  that  purpose  went  to  him  in  prison. 
The  victor  was  greatly  weighed  down,  crushed,  and  sick. 
He  wrote  another  complaint,  and  set  forth  his  wrongs ; 
but  his  complaint  was  not  received.  The  articles  in  the 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR.  323 

"  Posener  Zeitung  "  had  roused  opinions  in  Government 
circles  with  too  great  unfriendliness  toward  him.  Were 
the  authorities  to  refuse  protection  to  that  peaceable 
German  population,  "  which  in  the  last  war  had  given 
so  many  proofs  of  its  love  for  the  country  and  for  en- 
lightenment "  ?  Justly,  therefore,  was  Bartek's  complaint 
rejected.  But  be  not  surprised  if  that  crushed  him 
completely. 

"We  shall  be  lost  altogether,"  said  he,  to  his  wife. 

"Altogether,"  repeated  she. 

Bartek  began  to  think  over  something  powerfully. 

"  I  am  terribly  wronged,"  said  he. 

"  Boege  is  tormenting  the  boy,"  said  Magda.  "  I  went 
to  entreat  him  ;  he  abused  me  more.  '  Oi ! '  said  he,  '  the 
Germans  are  on  top  now  in  Poznan.  They  are  afraid  of 
nobody  now.'" 

"  It  is  sure  that  they  are  stronger,"  said  Bartek, 
gloomily. 

"  I  'm  a  simple  woman  ;  but  I  say  this,  that  God  is 
stronger." 

"  In  Him  is  our  refuge,"  added  Bartek. 

Both  were  silent  awhile  ;  then  they  asked  again,  — 

"  Well,  and  what  of  Just  ?  " 

"  May  the  highest  God  give  us  harvest !  perhaps  we 
may  pay  him  some  way.  Perhaps,  too,  Pan  Yarzynski 
will  help  us,  though  he  himself  is  in  debt  to  the  Ger- 
mans. Even  before  the  war  it  was  said  that  he  must  sell 
Pognembin.  Perhaps  he  will  marry  a  rich  woman." 

"  But  will  he  come  soon  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  They  say  at  the  mansion  that  he  '11 
come  soon  with  his  wife.  The  Germans  will  crowd  him 
when  he  comes.  Those  Germans  are  crawling  in  every- 
where like  worms.  Wherever  thy  eyes  look,  wherever 
thou  canst  turn,  in  the  village  or  the  town,  —  Germans ! 


324  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

It  must  be  in  punishment  for  our  sins.  And  rescue  from 
no  side  ! " 

"  Maybe  thou  canst  do  something ;  thou  art  a  wise 
woman." 

"  What  can  I  do,  what  ?  Did  I  borrow  money  from 
Just  of  my  own  will?  In  good  right,  the  cottage  in 
which  we  are,  and  the  land  too,  is  his  now.  Just  is  a 
better  German  than  others  ;  but  he  has  his  own  good  in 
mind,  and  not  ours.  He  will  not  spare  us,  as  he  has  not 
spared  others.  Am  I  such  a  fool  as  not  to  know  why  he 
offers  me  money  ?  But  what  is  to  be  done !  what  is  to 
be  done ! "  said  Magda,  wringing  her  hands  ;  "  tell,  tell,  if 
thou  art  wise.  Thou  wert  able  to  beat  the  French ;  but 
what  wilt  thou  do  when  there  is  no  roof  above  thy  head, 
nor  a  spoonful  of  food  for  thy  mouth  ? " 

The  victor  of  Gravelotte  seized  his  head,  — 

"  O  Jesus  !     0  Jesus  !  " 

Magda  had  a  good  heart ;  Bartek's  pain  moved  her ; 
she  said  at  once,  — 

"  Be  quiet,  poor  fellow,  be  quiet ;  do  not  seize  thy 
head,  for  it  is  not  healed  yet.  If  God  gives  a  harvest ! 
The  rye  is  so  beautiful  that  one  would  like  to  kiss  the 
land ;  and  the  wheat  is  beautiful.  The  land  is  not  a  Ger- 
man, —  it  will  not  wrong  thee.  Even  though  without 
thy  war  the  field  was  worked  stupidly,  still  there  is  such 
a  growth  that  —  " 

Honest  Magda  laughed  through  her  tears,  — 

"  The  land  is  not  a  German,"  repeated  she  again. 

"  Magda,"  said  Bartek,  looking  at  her  with  his  staring 
eyes,  "  Magda  !  " 

"What?" 

"  But  thou  art  —  as  —  " 

Bartek  felt  for  her  great  thankfulness ;  but  he  knew 
not  how  to  express  it. 


BARTER   THE  VICTOR.  325 


IX. 

MAGDA  was,  indeed,  worth  as  much  as  ten  women  worse 
than  herself.  She  held  her  Bartek  rather  strictly ;  but 
she  was  really  attached  to  him.  In  moments  of  excite- 
ment, as,  for  instance,  that  time  in  the  shop,  she  told  him 
to  his  eyes  that  he  was  a  fool ;  but  in  general  she  wished 
people  to  think  otherwise.  "  My  Bartek  seems  dull,  but 
he  is  cunning,"  said  she,  frequently.  Meanwhile  Bartek 
was  as  cunning  as  his  own  horse ;  and  without  Magda 
he  would  not  have  been  able  to  get  on  either  in  house- 
keeping or  aught  else.  Now  everything  was  on  her  hon- 
est head ;  and  she  began  to  hurry  about,  to  run,  to  entreat, 
so  that  she  found  rescue  at  last.  A  week  after  her  first 
visit  to  the  prison  hospital,  she  rushed  in  again  to  Bartek, 
panting,  happy,  radiant. 

"  How  art  thou,  Bartek,  thou  Chestnut  ? "  cried  she 
with  joy.  "  Pan  Yarzynski  has  come,  —  k newest  thou  ? 
He  got  married  in  the  Kingdom ;  the  young  lady  is  a 
berry.  And  he  got  all  kinds  of  riches  with  her." 

"  Well,  but  what  of  that  ?  "  inquired  Bartek. 

"  Be  quiet,  stupid  fellow  !  "  answered  Magda.  "  I  went 
to  bow  down  to  the  Pani ;  I  look  —  she  comes  out  to  me 
like  some  queen,  so  young,  as  beautiful  as  the  dawn." 

Magda  raised  her  apron,  and  began  to  wipe  her  face. 
After  a  while  she  spoke  again,  with  a  broken  voice,  — 

"  She  wore  a  robe  blue  as  a  star-thistle.  I  fell  at 
her  feet,  and  she  gave  me  her  hand  ;  I  kissed  it ;  and  her 
hands  are  sweet  and  small  as  the  hands  of  a  child.  She 
is  like  a  saint  in  a  picture ;  and  she  is  good,  and  under- 
stands the  sufferings  of  people.  I  entreated  her  to  save 
us,  may  God  reward  her  !  And  she  said,  '  What  is  in 
my  power  I  will  do.'  And  she  has  a  dear  voice ;  so 


326  BARTER  THE  VICTOR. 

that  when  she  speaks  a  sweetness  takes  hold  of  thee. 
When  I  told  how  unhappy  people  were  in  Pognembiu, 
she  said,  '  Ai,  not  only  in  Pognembin ! '  and  when  I 
broke  out  crying,  she  cried  as  well,  till  her  husband 
came  in,  and  saw  that  she  was  crying.  Then  he  took 
her,  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth  and  on  the  eyes. 
Lords  are  not  like  peasants !  Then  she  said  to  him, 
'  Do  what  thou  canst  for  this  woman  ! '  And  he  an- 
swered, '  Everything  in  the  world  according  to  thy  wish.' 
May  the  Mother  of  God  bless  her,  the  golden  berry  ! 
bless  her  with  children,  with  health !  '  Ye  are  greatly 
to  blame,'  said  Pan  Yarzynski,  '  for  putting  yourselves 
into  German  hands ;  but,'  said  he,  '  I  will  save  you,  and 
give  you  the  money  for  Just.' " 
Bartek  began  to  scratch  his  neck. 
"  But  the  Germans  had  him  in  hand,  too." 
"  What  of  that  ?  But  the  lady  is  rich.  Now  they  can 
buy  out  all  the  Germans  in  Pognembin,  so  he  can  talk 
that  way.  '  The  election  is  coming,'  said  he ;  '  let  the 
people  be  careful  not  to  vote  for  Germans.  I  will  give 
the  money  for  Just,  and  tame  Boege.'  And  the  lady  put 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  he  inquired  about  thee, 
and  said :  '  If  he  is  weak  I  will  ask  the  doctor  to  write  a 
certificate  that  he  cannot  sit  out  his  term  at  present. 
If  they  do  not  free  him  entirely,  let  him  stay  out  his 
term  in  winter ;  but  now  he  is  needed  for  the  harvest.' 
Dost  hear  ?  Yesterday,  Pan  Yarzynski  was  in  the  town, 
and  to-day  the  doctor  will  come  to  Pognembin  on  a  visit, 
for  he  was  asked.  He  is  not  a  German,  and  he  will  write 
a  certificate.  In  the  winter  thou  'It  be  in  prison  like  a 
king  in  his  castle ;  it  will  be  warm  for  thee  there,  and 
they  '11  give  thee  food  free  of  cost ;  and  now  thou  'It  go 
home  to  work,  and  we  '11  pay  Just,  and  maybe  Pan 
Yarzynski  will  not  want  any  interest.  And  if  we  do 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  327 

not  pay  all  in  the  autumn  I  '11  speak  to  the  lady.  May 
the  Mother  of  God  reward  her !  Dost  hear  ? " 

"  She  is  a  good  lady ;  there  is  nothing  to  be  said 
against  that,"  said  Bartek,  quickly. 

"Thou  wilt  fall  at  her  feet,  thou 'It  fall;  if  not  I'll 
twist  thy  yellow  head  off.  If  God  gives  a  good  harvest  — 
Dost  see  where  rescue  came  from  ?  From  the  Germans  ? 
Did  they  give  thee  even  one  copper  for  thy  stupid  work, 
did  they  ?  They  gave  thee  a  blow  on  the  head,  that 's 
all.  Thou 'It  fall  at  the  lady's  feet,  I  tell  thee." 

"  Why  not  fall?"  answered  Bartek,  resolutely. 

Fate  seemed  to  smile  again  on  the  victor.  A  few  days 
later  it  was  announced  to  him  that  for  reasons  of  health 
he  was  liberated  till  winter.  But  the  Landrath  com- 
manded Bartek  to  appear  before  him.  Bartek  came  with 
his  soul  on  his  shoulder.  That  man  who  with  bayonet 
in  hand  took  standards  and  cannon,  began  to  fear  every 
uniform  more  than  death,  —  began  to  bear  in  his  heart 
a  certain  dull,  unconscious  feeling  that  they  were  perse- 
cuting him,  that  they  could  do  what  they  liked  with 
him,  that  there  was  above  him  a  certain  enormous  power, 
hostile  and  malevolent,  which  would  grind  him  if  he  op- 
posed it.  He  stood  then  before  the  Landrath,  as  once  he 
had  stood  before  Steinmetz,  erect,  with  his  stomach  drawn 
in,  his  breast  pushed  forward,  without  breath  in  his  bosom. 
There  were  a  number  of  officers  there  also ;  war  and  mili- 
tary discipline  stood  as  if  living  before  Bartek.  The  officers 
looked  at  him  through  their  gold- rimmed  glasses  with  the 
pride  and  contempt  which  should  be  shown  a  common 
soldier  and  a  Polish  peasant  by  Prussian  officers.  Bartek 
held  his  breath,  and  the  Landrath  spoke  in  a  commanding 
tone.  He  did  not  request,  he  did  not  persuade  ;  he  com- 
manded, he  threatened.  The  member  had  died  in  Berlin, 
a  new  election  was  ordered. 


328  BARTER    THE   VICTOR. 

"  Du  polnisches  Vieh  (Thou  Polish  beast)  !  just  try- 
to  vote  for  Pan  Yarzynski,  try ! " 

The  brows  of  the  officers  were  contracted  at  that 
moment  in  terrible  lion  wrinkles.  One,  biting  a  cigar, 
repeated  after  the  Landrath,  "  try,"  and  the  breath  died 
in  Bartek  the  victor.  When  he  heard  the  desired  "  Go 
out ! "  he  made  a  half  turn  to  the  left,  went  out,  and 
drew  breath. 

The  command  was  issued  to  him  to  vote  for  Pan  Schul- 
berg  from  Upper  Kryvda.  He  did  not  think  over  the 
command ;  but  he  breathed,  he  went  to  Pognembin,  for 
he  could  be  home  for  the  harvest.  Pan  Yarzynski  had 
promised  to  pay  Just.  Bartek  went  outside  the  town. 
He  was  surrounded  by  fields  of  ripening  grain.  One  head 
heavy  with  the  wind  strikes  another  head  and  rustles 
with  a  sound  dear  to  the  ear  of  the  peasant.  Bartek  was 
weak  yet,  but  the  sun  warmed  him.  "  Hei,  how  beautiful 
it  is  in  the  world  ! "  thought  the  broken  soldier.  And 
it  is  not  far  now  to  Pognembin. 

X. 

THE  election  !  the  election  !  Pani  Marya  Yarxynsld  has 
her  head  full  of  it ;  she  thinks  not,  she  speaks  not,  she 
dreams  not  of  anything  else. 

"  The  lady  benefactress  is  a  great  politician,"  says  a 
neighboring  noble,  kissing  like  a  dragon  her  small  hands  ; 
and  the  "  great  politician  "  blushes  like  a  cherry,  and 
answers  with  a  pretty  smile,  — 

"  We  agitate  as  far  as  we  are  able." 

"  Pan  Yozef  will  be  elected,"  said  the  noble,  convinc- 
ingly, and  the  "  great  politician  "  answers,  — 

"  I  should  like  it  greatly,  though  the  question  is  not 
merely  of  Yozio,  but  [here  the  "  great  politician "  was 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  329 

cooking  again  the  unpolitical  lobster]  of  the   common 
cause." 

"  A  real  Bismarck,  as  I  love  God  ! "  cries*  the  noble, 
and  again  he  kisses  the  small  hand.  Again  the  two  take 
counsel  about  the  agitation.  The  noble  takes  on  himself 
Lower  Kryvda  and  Mizerov  (Upper  Kryvda  is  lost,  for 
its  owner  is  Pan  Schulberg)  and  Pani  Marya  is  to  occupy 
herself  beyond  all  with  Pognembin.  Her  head  was  on 
fire  because  she  was  playing  such  a  role.  Indeed,  she  lost 
no  time.  Every  day  she  was  to  be  seen  on  the  high  road 
among  the  cottages,  her  skirt  raised  with  one  hand,  her 
little  parasol  in  the  other,  and  from  under  the  skirt 
peeped  forth  her  dainty  feet,  trotting  around  eagerly  for 
great  political  objects.  She  enters  the  cottages  of  labor- 
ing people,  says  on  the  way,  "  God  give  assistance  ! "  She 
visits  the  sick,  occupies  herself  with  the  people,  helps 
where  she  can  ;  she  would  have  done  that  without  politics, 
for  she  has  a  good  heart ;  but  all  the  more  for  politics. 
What  would  she  not  do  for  politics  ?  But  she  does  not 
dare  to  confess  to  her  husband  that  she  has  an  irresistible 
desire  to  go  to  the  village  court ;  she  even  put  together 
in  her  head  a  speech  proper  to  be  made  there.  What  a 
speech  !  what  a  speech  !  In  truth  she  would  not  really 
speak  it ;  but  if  she  should  speak  it,  then  ?  When  the 
news  came  to  Pognembin  that  the  authorities  had  dissolved 
the  village  court,  the  "  great  politician  "  burst  out  from 
anger  in  her  room,  tore  her  handkerchief,  and  had  red 
eyes  all  day.  In  vain  did  her  husband  entreat  her  not  to 
demean  herself  to  that  degree.  Next  morning  the  agita- 
tion was  carried  on  in  Pognembin  with  still  greater  in- 
tensity. Pani  Marya  did  not  retreat  before  anything. 
In  one  day  she  was  at  a  number  of  cottages,  and  jeered  at 
the  Germans  so  loudly  that  her  husband  had  to  restrain 
her.  But  there  is  no  danger;  the  people  receive  her 


330  BARTEK  THE   VICTOR. 

with  joy,  kiss  her  hands,  and  smile  at  her,  for  she  is  so 
shapely,  so  rosy,  that  when  she  enters  a  house  it  grows 
bright.  In  "turn  she  came  to  Bartek's  cottage.  Lysek  the 
dog  would  not  let  her  in,  but  Magda  in  her  anger  gave 
him  a  blow  of  a  club  on  the  head. 

"  Oh,  serene  lady,  my  golden  lady,  my  beauty,  my 
berry  ! "  cried  Magda,  nestling  up  to  her  hands. 

Bartek,  in  obedience  to  command,  throws  himself  at 
her  feet ;  little  Franek  first  of  all  kisses  her  hand,  then 
puts  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  and  buries  himself  wholly 
in  wonderment. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  young  lady,  after  the  greetings  were 
over,  "I  hope,  my  Bartek,  that  you  will  vote  for  my 
husband,  not  for  Pan  Schulberg." 

"  Oh,  my  dawn  ! "  cried  Magda,  "  who  would  vote  for 
Schulberg  ?  May  the  paralysis  strike  him  !  [Here  she 
kissed  the  lady's  hand.]  Let  not  the  serene  lady  be 
angry  ;  but  when  a  German  is  mentioned,  it  is  hard  to 
hold  the  tongue/' 

"  My  husband  has  told  me  that  he  will  pay  Just." 

"  May  God  bless  him  !  "  Here  Magda  turned  to  Bartek. 
"Why  stand  like  a  post  ?  He,  my  lady,  is  terribly  silent." 

"  You  will  vote  for  my  husband,"  asked  the  lady,  "  will 
you  not  ?  You  are  Poles,  we  are  Poles ;  we  will  hold 
together." 

"  I  would  twist  his  head  off  if  he  did  n't  vote,"  said 
Magda.  "  Why  stand  like  a  post  ?  He  is  terribly  silent. 
Stir  up!" 

Bartek  kisses  the  hand  of  the  lady  again ;  but  is  silent 
all  the  time  and  gloomy  as  night.  He  is  thinking  of  the 
Landrath. 

The  day  of  the  election  is  coming,  has  come.  Pan 
Yarzynski  is  certain  of  victory.  The  nobles  have  returned 


BARTEK  THE  VICTOR.  331 

from  the  town ;  they  have  already  voted,  and  will  wait 
now  in  Pognembin  for  the  news  which  the  priest  is  to 
bring.  There  will  be  a  dinner  after  that ;  in  the  evening 
the  Yarzynskis  will  go  to  Poznan,  and  then  to  Berlin. 
Some  villages  in  the  electoral  district  had  voted  the  day 
before  ;  the  result  will  be  known  to-day.  The  company, 
however,  is  in  good  spirits.  The  youthful  lady  is  a  little 
disquieted,  but  full  of  hope  and  smiles.  She  is  such  a 
welcoming  lady  that  all  say,  "  Pan  Yarzynski  has  found 
a  real  treasure  in  the  Kingdom."  That  "  treasure  "  can- 
not indeed  sit  quietly  in  one  place  just  now,  but  is 
running  from  guest  to  guest,  and  commands  each  a  hun- 
dred times  to  give  the  assurance  that  "  Yozio  will  be 
elected."  She  is  not  really  ambitious,  and  not  from 
vanity  does  she  wish  to  become  the  wife  of  a  member ; 
but  she  has  imagined  in  her  young  head  that  she  and 
her  husband  have  a  real  mission  to  perform.  Her  heart 
therefore  is  beating  as  quickly  as  at  the  moment  of  her 
marriage,  and  joy  lights  up  her  pretty  face.  Making  her 
way  deftly  through  the  guests,  she  approaches  her  husband, 
draws  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  whispers  into  his  ear  like  a 
child  who  is  nicknaming  some  one,  "Pan  Posel  [Lord 
Deputy]."  He  smiles,  and  both  are  happy  beyond 
expression.  Both  have  a  great  desire  to  kiss  each  other, 
but  that  is  not  proper  before  guests.  All  are  looking 
every  moment  through  the  window,  for  the  cause  is  really 
important.  The  member  who  had  died  recently  was  a 
Pole,  and  this  was  the  first  time  that  the  Germans  had 
brought  out  a  candidate  in  the  district.  Clearly  a  victori- 
ous war  had  given  them  boldness ;  but  for  that  reason 
it  was  important  to  the  company  assembled  in  the 
mansion  of  Pognembin  that  their  candidate  be  chosen. 
There  was  no  lack  either  before  the  dinner,  of  patriotic 
utterances,  which  moved  especially  the  youthful  lady,  so 


332  BARTER   THE   VICTOR. 

unaccustomed  to  them.  At  moments  she  had  attacks  of 
fear :  But  if  some  fraud  should  be  committed  in  counting 
the  votes  ?  But  Germans  are  not  alone  in  the  committee. 
The  older  inhabitants  explained  then  to  the  lady  how 
the  counting  of  votes  is  carried  on.  She  had  heard  it 
about  a  hundred  times,  but  wishes  to  hear  it  again,  for 
the  question  is  :  Are  the  people  of  that  place  to  have 
a  defender  in  Parliament  or  an  enemy  ?  That  will  be 
decided  soon  indeed,  for  on  the  road  a  cloud  of  dust  rises 
suddenly.  "  The  priest  is  coming,  the  priest  is  coming  !  " 
repeat  those  present.  The  lady  grows  pale.  On  all  faces 
excitement  is  evident.  They  are  certain  of  victory  ;  but 
still  the  last  moment  increases  the  beating  of  hearts. 
But  that  is  not  the  priest ;  it  is  the  land-steward  returning 
on  horseback  from  the  town.  Maybe  he  knows  some- 
thing ?  He  ties  the  horse  to  the  ring  and  hurries  to  the 
house.  The  guests,  with  the  lady  in  front  of  them,  rush 
out  to  the  porch. 

"Have  you  news?  Is  our  host  elected?  What? 
Come  here !  You  know  surely  ?  Is  the  result  an- 
nounced ? " 

Questions  cross  each  other  and  fall  like  rockets.  The 
man  throws  his  cap  in  the  air. 

"  Our  lord  is  elected." 

The  lady  drops  suddenly  on  the  bench  and  presses  her 
swelling  bosom  with  her  hand. 

"  Vivat !  vivat ! "  cried  the  neighbors.  "  Vivat ! " 

The  servants  rush  out  of  the  kitchen :  "Vivat!  The 
Germans  are  beaten  !  Long  life  to  the  new  member  and 
the  lady!" 

"  But  the  priest  ? "  inquires  some  one. 

"He  will  be  here  soon,"  said  the  land-steward;  "they 
are  still  counting  the  last  names." 

"  Bring  in  the  dinner !  "  cries  the  new  member. 


BARTER  THE   VICTOR.  333 

"  Vivat ! "  repeat  others. 

All  return  from  the  porch  to  the  hall.  Congratula- 
tions to  the  lord  and  the  lady  are  now  flowing  more 
calmly ;  but  the  lady  herself  is  not  able  to  restrain  her 
joy,  and  without  thinking  of  spectators  throws  her  arms 
around  her  husband's  neck.  But  they  do  not  take  that 
ill  of  her ;  nay,  emotion  seizes  all. 

"  We  shall  live  yet,"  says  a  neighbor  from  Mizerov. 

That  moment  a  rattling  is  heard  at  the  porch ;  the 
priest  enters  the  hall,  and  with  him  old  Kyerz  from 
Pognembin. 

"  We  greet,  we  greet ! "  cry  the  guests.  "  Well,  what 
was  the  majority  ? " 

The  priest,  silent  for  an  instant,  casts  as  it  were  in  the 
face  of  the  general  rejoicing  harshly  and  briefly  two 
words,  — 

"Schulberg  elected!" 

A  moment  of  astonishment,  a  hail-storm  of  questions 
hurried  and  disturbed,  to  which  the  priest  answers 
again,  — 

"Schulberg  elected!" 

"How?  What  has  happened?  In  what  way?  The 
land-steward  said  he  was  not.  What  has  happened  ? " 

At  that  moment  Pan  Yarzynski  conducted  out  of  the 
hall  poor  Pani  Marya,  who  was  gnawing  her  handker- 
chief to  avoid  bursting  into  tears  or  fainting. 

"  O  misfortune !  misfortune ! "  repeat  the  guests,  seiz- 
ing themselves  by  their  heads. 

At  that  moment  from  the  direction  of  the  village 
comes  the  sound  of  distant  voices  as  if  joyous  shouts. 
That  is  the  Germans  of  Pognembin  going  around  joyfully 
with  their  victory. 

The  Yarzynskis  return  to  the  hall.  It  was  to  be  heard 
how  at  the  door  the  young  man  said  to  the  lady,  "  II  faut 


334  BARTER  THE   VICTOR. 

faire  bonne  mine  (We  must  put  a  good  face  on  it)."  In 
fact  the  lady  was  weeping  no  longer ;  she  had  dry  eyes, 
and  was  greatly  flushed. 

"Tell  us  now  how  it  happened,"  said  the  host,  calmly. 

"  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  serene  lord,"  said  old 
Kerz,  "  when  the  peasants  here  in  Pognembin  voted  for 
Schulberg?" 

"  Who,  —  these  here  ?     But  how  was  that  ? " 

"  They  did.  I  myself  saw,  and  all  saw,  Bartek  Slovik 
vote  for  Schulberg." 

"  Bartek  Slovik  ? "  said  the  lady. 

"  Of  course.  Now  the  others  are  railing  at  him,  the 
man  is  rolling  on  the  ground ;  he  is  weeping,  his  wife  is 
abusing  him.  But  I  myself  saw  him  vote." 

"  Such  a  man  should  be  driven  from  the  village,"  said 
a  neighbor  from  Mizerov. 

"  Well,  serene  lord,"  said  Kerz,  "  others  too  who  were 
at  the  war  voted  that  way  as  well  as  he.  They  say  that 
they  were  commanded." 

"  Abuse,  pure  abuse  !  the  election  is  not  valid.  Con- 
straint, fraud  !  "  cried  various  voices. 

Not  joyful  was  the  dinner  of  that  day  in  the  Pognem- 
bin mansion.  In  the  evening  the  Yarzynkis  went  away, 
—  but  not  to  Berlin,  only  to  Dresden. 

Miserable,  cursed,  despised,  and  hated,  Bartek  sat  in 
his  cottage,  a  stranger  even  to  his  own  wife,  for  the  whole 
day  she  had  not  spoken  a  word  to  him. 

God  gave  a  bountiful  harvest,  and  in  the  autumn  Pan 
Just,  who  had  now  taken  possession  of  Bartek's  place, 
was  glad  that  he  had  done  a  business  that  was  not  at 
all  bad. 

On  a  certain  day  three  people  were  going  from  Pog- 
nembin to  the  town,  a  man,  a  woman,  and  a  boy.  The 


BARTER   THE   VICTOR  335 

man,  greatly  bent,  was  more  like  some  old  grandfather 
than  a  healthy  person.  They  were  going  to  the  town,  for 
in  Pognembin  they  could  not  find  work.  The  rain  was 
falling ;  the  woman  was  sobbing  terribly  in  grief  for  the 
lost  cottage  and  the  village,  the  man  was  silent.  The 
whole  road  was  empty,  neither  a  wagon  nor  a  man,  — 
only  the  cross  stretched  over  the  wayside,  its  arms  wet 
from  rain.  The  rain  fell  more  and  more  densely,  and  it 
was  growing  dark  in  the  world. 

Bartek,  Magda,  and  Franek  were  on  their  way  to  the 
town  ;  the  victor  of  Gravelotte  and  Sedan  had  to  serve 
out  his  time  in  prison  for  the  Boege  affair. 

The  Yarzynskis  were  living  in  Dresden. 


ACKOSS  THE  PLAINS. 


22 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

DURING  my  stay  in  California  I  went  with  my 
worthy  and  gallant  friend,  Captain  R,  to  visit 
Y.,  a  compatriot  of  ours  who  was  living  in  the  secluded 
mountains  of  Santa  Lucia.  Not  finding  him  at  home, 
we  passed  five  days  in  a  lonely  ravine,  in  company  with 
an  old  Indian  servant,  who  during  his  master's  absence 
took  care  of  the  Angora  goats  and  the  bees. 

Conforming  to  the  ways  of  the  country,  I  spent  the 
hot  summer  days  mainly  in  sleep,  but  when  night  came 
I  sat  down  near  a  fire  of  dry  "  chamisal,"  and  listened  to 
stories  from  the  captain,  concerning  his  wonderful  advent- 
ures, and  events  which  could  happen  only  in  the  wilds 
of  America. 

Those  hours  passed  for  me  very  bewitchingly.  The 
nights  were  real  Ca'lifornian :  calm,  warm,  starry ;  the 
fire  burned  cheerily,  and  in  its  gleam  I  saw  the  gigantic, 
but  shapely  and  noble  form  of  the  old  pioneer  warrior. 
Raising  his  eyes  to  the  stars,  he  sought  to  recall  past 
events,  cherished  names,  and  dear  faces,  the  very  remem- 
brance of  which  brought  a  mild  sadness  to  his  features. 
Of  these  narratives  I  give  one  just  as  I  heard  it,  thinking 
that  the  reader  will  listen  to  it  with  as  much  interest  as 
I  did. 

CHAPTER  I. 

I  CAME  to  America  in  September,  1849,  said  the  captain, 
and  found  myself  in  New  Orleans,  which  was  half  French 
at  that  time.  From  New  Orleans  I  went  up  the  Missis- 


340  ACROSS  THE   PLAINS. 

sippi  to  a  great  sugar  plantation,  where  I  found  work 
and  good  wages.  But  since  I  was  young  in  those  days, 
and  full  of  enterprise,  sitting  in  one  spot  and  writing 
annoyed  me ;  so  I  left  that  place  soon  and  began  life 
in  the  forest.  My  comrades  and  I  passed  some  time 
among  the  lakes  of  Louisiana,  amidst  crocodiles,  snakes, 
and  mosquitoes.  We  supported  ourselves  with  hunting 
and  fishing,  and  from  time  to  time  floated  down  many 
logs  to  New  Orleans,  where  purchasers  paid  for  them  not 
badly  in  money. 

Our  expeditions  reached  distant  places.  We  went  as  far 
as  "  Bloody  Arkansas,"  which,  sparsely  inhabited  even  at 
this  day,  was  well-nigh  a  pure  wilderness  at  that  time. 
Such  a  life,  full  of  labors  and  dangers,  bloody  encounters 
with  pirates  on  the  Mississippi,  and  with  Indians,  who 
were  numerous  then  in  Louisiana,  Arkansas,  and  Tennes- 
see, increased  my  health  and  strength,  which  by  nature 
were  uncommon,  and  gave  me  also  such  knowledge  of 
the  plains,  that  I  could  read  in  that  great  book  not 
worse  than  any  red  warrior. 

After  the  discovery  of  gold  in  California,  large  parties 
of  emigrants  left  Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia,  and 
other  eastern  cities  almost  daily,  and  one  of  these,  thanks 
to  my  reputation,  chose  me  leader,  or  as  we  say  here, 
captain. 

I  accepted  the  office  willingly,  since  wonders  were  told 
of  California  in  those  days,  and  I  had  cherished  thoughts 
of  going  to  the  Far  West,  though  without  concealing 
from  myself  the  perils  of  the  journey. 

At  present  the  distance  between  New  York  and  San 
Francisco  is  passed  by  rail  in  a  week,  and  the  real  desert 
begins  only  west  of  Omaha ;  in  those  days  it  was  some- 
thing quite  different.  Cities  and  towns,  which  between 
New  York  and  Chicago  are  as  numerous  as  poppy-seeds 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  341 

now,  did  not  exist  then  ;  and  Chicago  itself,  which  later 
on  grew  up  like  a  mushroom  after  rain,  was  merely  a 
poor  obscure  fishing-village  not  found  on  maps.  It  was 
necessary  to  travel  with  wagons,  men,  and  mules  through 
a  country  quite  wild,  and  inhabited  by  terrible  tribes  of 
Indians :  Crows,  Blackfeet,  Pawnees,  Sioux,  and  Aricka- 
rees,  which  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  avoid  in  large 
numbers,  since  those  tribes,  movable  as  sand,  had  no 
fixed  dwellings,  but,  being  hunters,  circled  over  great 
spaces  of  prairie,  while  following  buffaloes  and  antelopes. 

Not  few  were  the  toils,  then,  that  threatened  us ;  but 
he  who  goes  to  the  Far  West  must  be  ready  to  suffer 
hardship,  and  expose  his  life  frequently.  I  feared  most 
of  all  the  responsibility  which  I  had  accepted.  This 
matter  had  been  settled,  however,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  make  preparations  for  the  journey.  These  lasted 
more  than  two  months,  since  we  had  to  bring  wagons, 
even  from  Pittsburgh,  to  buy  mules,  horses,  arms,  and 
collect  large  supplies  of  provisions.  Toward  the  end  of 
winter,  however,  all  things  were  ready. 

I  wished  to  start  in  such  season  as  to  pass  the  great 
prairies  lying  between  the  Mississippi  and  the  Rocky 
Mountains  in  spring,  for  I  knew  that  in  summer  because 
of  heat  in  those  open  places,  multitudes  of  men  died  of 
various  diseases.  I  decided  for  this  reason  to  lead  the 
train,  not  over  the  southern  route  by  St.  Louis,  but 
through  Iowa,  Nebraska,  and  Northern  Colorado.  That 
road  was  more  dangerous  with  reference  to  Indians,  but 
beyond  doubt  it  was  healthier.  The  plan  roused  op- 
position at  first  among  people  of  the  train.  I  declared 
that  if  they  would  not  obey  they  might  choose  another 
captain.  They  yielded  after  a  brief  consultation,  and  we 
moved  at  the  first  breath  of  spring. 

Days  now  set  in  which  for  me  were  toilsome  enough, 


342  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

especially  till  such  time  as  men  had  grown  accustomed 
to  me  and  the  conditions  of  the  journey.  It  is  true  that 
my  person  roused  confidence,  for  my  daring  trips  to 
Arkansas  had  won  a  certain  fame  among  the  restless 
population  of  the  border,  and  the  name  of  "  Big  Ealph," 
by  which  I  was  known  on  the  prairies,  had  struck  the 
ears  of  most  of  my  people  more  than  once.  In  general, 
however,  the  captain,  or  leader,  was,  from  the  nature  of 
things,  in  a  very  critical  position  frequently  with  regard 
to  emigrants.  It  was  my  duty  to  choose  the  camping- 
ground  every  evening,  watch  over  the  advance  in  the 
daytime,  have  an  eye  on  the  whole  caravan,  which  ex- 
tended at  times  a  mile  over  the  prairie,  appoint  sentries 
at  the  halting-places,  and  give  men  permission  to  rest  in 
the  wagons  when  their  turn  came. 

Americans  have  in  them,  it  is  true,  the  spirit  of  organ- 
ization developed  to  a  high  degree ;  but  in  toils  on  a  jour- 
ney men's  energies  weaken,  and  unwillingness  seizes  the 
most  enduring.  At  such  times  no  one  wishes  to  recon- 
noitre all  day  on  horseback  and  stand  sentry  at  night, 
but  each  would  like  to  evade  the  turn  which  is  com- 
ing to  him,  and  lie  entire  days  in  a  wagon.  Besides, 
in  intercourse  with  Americans,  a  captain  must  know  how 
to  reconcile  discipline  with  a  certain  social  familiarity,  — 
a  thing  far  from  easy.  In  time  of  march,  and  in  the 
hours  of  night-watching,  I  was  perfect  master  of  the  will 
of  each  of  my  companions;  but  during  rest  in  the  day 
at  farms  and  settlements,  to  which  we  came  at  first  on 
the  road,  my  role  of  commander  ended.  Each  man  was 
then  his  own  master,  and  more  than  once  I  was  forced 
to  overcome  the  opposition  of  insolent  adventurers ;  but 
when  in  presence  of  numerous  spectators  it  turned  out 
a  number  of  times  that  my  Mazovian  fist  was  the 
stronger,  my  significance  rose,  and  later  on  I  never 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  343 

had  personal  encounters.  Besides,  I  knew  American 
character  thoroughly.  I  knew  how  to  help  myself,  and, 
in  addition  to  all.  my  endurance  and  willingness  were 
increased  by  a  certain  pair  of  blue  eyes,  which  looked 
out  at  me  with  special  interest  from  beneath  the  can- 
vas roof  of  a  wagon.  Those  eyes  looked  from  under  a 
forehead  shaded  by  rich  golden  hair,  and  they  belonged 
to  a  maiden  named  Lillian  Morris.  She  was  delicate, 
slender,  with  finely  cut  features,  and  a  face  thoughtful, 
though  almost  childlike.  That  seriousness  in  such  a 
young  girl  struck  me  at  once  when  beginning  the  jour- 
ney, but  duties  connected  with  the  office  of  captain  soon 
turned  elsewhere  my  mind  and  attention. 

During  the  first  weeks  I  exchanged  with  Miss  Morris 
barely  a  couple  of  words  beyond  the  usual  daily  "good 
morning."  Taking  compassion,  however,  on  her  loneliness 
and  youth,  —  she  had  no  relatives  in  that  caravan, — 
I  showed  the  poor  girl  some  trifling  services.  I  had 
not  the  least  need  of  guarding  her  with  my  author- 
ity of  leader  nor  with  my  fist  from  the  forwardness  of 
young  men  in  the  train,  for  among  Americans  even  the 
youngest  woman  is  sure,  if  not  of  the  over-prompt  polite- 
ness for  which  the  French  are  distinguished,  at  least  of 
perfect  security.  In  view,  however,  of  Lillian's  delicate 
health,  I  put  her  in  the  most  commodious  wagon,  in 
charge  of  a  driver  of  great  experience,  named  Smith. 
I  spread  for  her  a  couch  on  which  she  could  sleep  with 
comfort ;  finally,  I  lent  her  a  warm  buffalo-skin,  of  which 
I  had  a  number  in  reserve.  Though  these  services  were 
not  important,  Lillian  seemed  to  feel  a  lively  gratitude, 
and  omitted  no  opportunity  to  show  it.  She  was  evi- 
dently very  mild  and  retiring.  Two  women,  Aunt 
Grosvenor  and  Aunt  Atkins,  soon  loved  her  beyond  ex- 
pression for  her  sweetness  of  character.  "  Little  Bird," 


344  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

a  title  which  they  gave  her,  became  the  name  by  which 
she  was  known  in  the  caravan.  Still,  there  was  not 
the  slightest  approach  between  Little  Bird  and  me,  till  I 
noticed  that  the  blue  and  almost  angelic  eyes  of  that 
maiden  were  turned  toward  me,  with  a  certain  special 
sympathy  and  determined  interest. 

That  might  have  been  interpreted  in  this  way :  Among 
all  the  people  of  the  train  I  alone  had  some  social  refine- 
ment ;  Lillian,  in  whom  also  a  careful  training  was  evi- 
dent, saw  in  me,  therefore,  a  man  nearer  to  her  than  the 
rest  of  the  company.  But  I  understood  the  affair  some- 
what differently.  The  interest  which  she  showed  pleased 
my  vanity;  my  vanity  made  me  pay  her  more  attention, 
and  look  oftener  into  her  eyes.  It  was  not  long  till  I 
was  striving  in  vain  to  discover  why,  up  to  that  time, 
I  had  paid  so  little  attention  to  a  person  so  exquisite,  — 
a  person  who  might  inspire  tender  feelings  in  any  man 
who  had  a  heart. 

Thenceforth  I  was  fond  of  coursing  around  her  wagon 
on  my  horse.  During  the  heat  of  the  day,  which  in 
spite  of  the  early  spring  annoyed  us  greatly  at  noon,  the 
mules  dragged  forward  lazily,  and  the  caravan  stretched 
along  the  prairie,  so  that  a  man  standing  at  the  first 
wagon  could  barely  see  the  last  one.  Often  did  I  fly  at 
such  times  from  end  to  end,  wearying  my  horse  without 
need,  just  to  see  that  bright  head  in  passing,  and  those 
eyes,  which  hardly  ever  left  my  mind.  At  first  my  imag- 
ination was  more  taken  than  my  heart ;  I  received  pleas- 
ant solace  from  the  thought  that  among  those  strange 
people  I  was  not  entirely  a  stranger,  since  a  sympa- 
thetic little  soul  was  occupied  with  me  somewhat.  Per- 
haps this  came  not  from  vanity,  but  from  the  yearning 
which  a  man  feels  on  earth  to  discover  his  own  self  in 
a  heart  near  to  him,  to  fix  his  affections  and  thoughts 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  345 

on  one  living  beloved  existence,  instead  of  wasting  them 
on  such  indefinite,  general  objects  as  plains  and  forests, 
and  losing  himself  in  remotenesses  and  infinities. 

I  felt  less  lonely  then,  and  the  whole  journey  took  on 
attractions  unknown  to  me  hitherto.  Formerly,  when 
the  caravan  stretched  out  on  the  prairie,  as  I  have 
described,  so  that  the  last  wagons  vanished  from  the  eye, 
I  saw  in  that  only  a  lack  of  attention,  and  disorder,  from 
which  I  grew  very  angry.  Now,  when  I  halted  on  some 
eminence,  the  sight  of  those  wagons,  white  and  striped, 
shone  on  by  the  sun  and  plunging  in  the  sea  of  grass, 
like  ships  on  the  ocean,  the  sight  of  men,  on  horseback 
and  armed,  scattered  in  picturesque  disorder  at  the  sides 
of  the  wagons,  filled  my  soul  with  delight  and  with  hap- 
piness. And  I  know  not  whence  such  comparisons  came 
to  me,  but  that  seemed  some  kind  of  Old  Testament  pro- 
cession, which  I,  like  a  patriarch,  was  leading  to  the 
Promised  Land.  The  bells  on  the  harness  of  the  mules 
and  the  drawling,  "  Get  up  ! "  of  the  drivers  accompanied 
like  music  thoughts  which  came  from  my  heart  and  my 
nature. 

But  I  did  not  pass  from  that  dialogue  of  eyes  with 
Lillian  to  another,  for  the  presence  of  the  women  travel- 
ling with  her  prevented  me.  Still,  from  the  time  when 
I  saw  that  there  was  something  between  us  for  which 
I  could  not  find  a  name  yet,  though  I  felt  that  the 
something  was  there,  a  certain  strange  timidity  seized 
me.  I  redoubled,  however,  my  care  for  the  women,  and 
frequently  I  looked  into  the  wagon,  inquiring  about  the 
health  of  Aunt  Atkins  and  Aunt  Grosvenor,  so  as  to 
justify  in  that  way  and  equalize  the  attentions  with 
which  I  surrounded  Lillian ;  but  she  understood  my 
methods  perfectly,  and  this  understanding  became  as  it 
were  our  own  secret,  concealed  from  the  rest  of  the  people. 


346  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

Soon,  glances  and  a  passing  exchange  of  words  and 
tender  endeavors  were  not  enough  for  me.  That  young 
maiden  with  bright  hair  and  sweet  look  drew  me  to  her 
with  an  irresistible  power.  I  began  to  think  of  her 
whole  days ;  and  at  night,  when  wearied  from  visiting 
the  sentries,  and  hoarse  from  crying  "  All  is  well ! "  I 
came  at  last  to  the  wagon,  and  wrapping,  myself  in  a 
buffalo-skin,  closed  my  eyes  to  rest,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  gnats  and  mosquitoes  buzzing  around  were  singing 
unceasingly  in  my  ears,  "  Lillian  !  Lillian  !  Lillian  ! "  Her 
form  stood  before  me  in  my  dreams  ;  at  waking,  my  first 
thought  flew  to  her  like  a  swallow  ;  and  still,  wonderful 
thing !  I  had  not  noticed  that  the  dear  attraction  which 
everything  assumed  for  me,  that  painting  in  the  soul  of 
objects  in  golden  colors,  and  those  thoughts  sailing  after 
her  wagon,  were  not  a  friendship  nor  an  inclination  for 
an  orphan,  but  a  mightier  feeling  by  far,  a  feeling  from 
which  no  man  on  earth  can  defend  himself  when  the 
turn  has  come  to  him. 

It  may  be  that  I  should  have  noticed  this  sooner,  had 
it  not  been  that  the  sweetness  of  Lillian's  nature  won 
every  one  to  her;  I  thought,  therefore,  that  I  was  no 
more  under  the  charm  of  that  maiden  than  were  others. 
All  loved  her  as  their  own  child,  and  I  had  proof  of 
this  before  my  eyes  daily.  Her  companions  were  simple 
women,  sufficiently  inclined  to  wordy  quarrels,  and  still, 
more  than  once  had  I  seen  Aunt  Atkins,  the  greatest 
Herod  on  earth,  combing  Lillian's  hair  in  the  morning, 
kissing  her  with  the  affection  of  a  mother ;  sometimes  I 
saw  Aunt  Grosvenor  warming  in  her  own  palms  the 
maiden's  hands,  which  had  chilled  in  the  night.  The 
men  surrounded  her  likewise  with  care  and  attentions. 
There  was  a  certain  Henry  Simpson  in  the  train,  a  young 
adventurer  from  Kansas,  a  fearless  hunter  and  an  honest 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  347 

fellow  at  heart,  but  so  self-sufficient,  so  insolent  and 
rough,  that  during  the  first  month  I  had  to  beat  the  man 
twice,  to  convince  him  that  there  was  some  one  in  the 
train  who  had  a  stronger  hand  than  his,  and  who  was  of 
superior  significance.  You  should  have  seen  that  same 
Henry  Simpson  speaking  to  Lillian.  He  who  would  not 
have  thought  anything  of  the  President  of  the  United 
States  himself,  lost  in  her  presence  all  his  confidence  and 
boldness,  and  repeated  every  moment,  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don, Miss  Morris ! "  He  had  quite  the  bearing  of  a  chained 
mastiff,  but  clearly  the  mastiff  was  ready  to  obey  every 
motion  of  that  small,  half-childlike  hand.  At  the  halting- 
places  he  tried  always  to  be  with  Lillian,  so  as  to  ren- 
der her  various  little  services.  He  lighted  the  fire,  and 
selected  for  her  a  place  free  from  smoke,  covering  it  first 
with  moss  and  then  with  his  own  horse-blankets;  he 
chose  for  her  the  best  pieces  of  game,  doing  all  this 
with  a  certain  timid  attention  which  I  had  not  thought 
to  find  in  him,  and  which  roused  in  me,  nevertheless,  a 
kind  of  ill-will  very  similar  to  jealousy. 

But  I  could  only  be  angry,  nothing  more.  Henry,  if 
the  turn  to  stand  guard  did  not  come  to  him,  might  do 
what  he  liked  with  his  time,  hence  he  could  be  near 
Lillian,  while  my  turn  of  service  never  ended.  On  the 
road  the  wagons  dragged  forward  one  after  another,  often 
very  far  apart;  but  when  we  entered  an  open  country 
for  the  midday  rest  I  placed  the  wagons,  according  to 
prairie  custom,  in  a  line  side  by  side,  so  that  a  man  could 
hardly  push  between  them.  It  is  difficult  to  understand 
how  much  trouble  and  toil  I  had  before  such  an  easily 
defended  line  was  formed.  Mules  are  by  nature  wild  and 
untractable ;  either  they  balked,  or  they  would  not  go  out 
of  the  beaten  track,  biting  each  other  meanwhile,  neighing 
and  kicking ;  wagons,  twisted  by  sudden  movement,  were 


348  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

turned  over  frequently,  and  the  raising  up  of  such  real 
houses  of  wood  and  canvas  took  no  little  time ;  the  bray- 
ing of  mules,  the  cursing  of  drivers,  the  tinkling  of  bells, 
the  barking  of  dogs  which  followed  us,  caused  a  hellish 
uproar.  When  I  had  brought  all  into  order  in  some 
fashion,  I  had  to  oversee  the  unharnessing  of  the  animals 
and  urge  on  the  men  whose  work  it  was  to  drive  them 
to  pasture  and  then  to  water.  Meanwhile  men  who 
during  the  advance  had  gone  out  on  the  prairie  to  hunt, 
were  returning  from  all  sides  with  game ;  the  fires  were 
occupied  by  people,  and  I  found  barely  time  to  eat  and 
draw  breath. 

I  had  almost  double  labor  when  we  started  after  each 
rest,  for  attaching  the  mules  involved  more  noise  and 
uproar  than  letting  them  out.  Besides,  the  drivers  tried 
always  to  get  ahead  of  one  another,  so  as  to  spare  them- 
selves trouble  in  turning  out  of  line  in  bad  places.  From 
this  came  quarrels  and  disputes,  together  with  curses  and 
unpleasant  delays  on  the  road.  I  had  to  watch  over  all 
this,  and  in  time  of  marching  ride  in  advance,  immedi- 
ately after  the  guides,  to  examine  the  neighborhood  and 
select  in  season  defensible  places,  abounding  in  water, 
and,  in  general,  commodious  for  night  camps.  Fre- 
quently I  cursed  my  duties  as  captain,  though  on  the 
other  hand  the  thought  filled  me  with  pride,  that  in  all 
that  boundless  desert  I  was  the  first  before  the  desert 
itself,  before  people,  before  Lillian,  and  that  the  fate  of 
all  those  beings,  wandering  behind  the  wagons  over  that 
prairie,  was  placed  in  my  hands. 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  349 


CHAPTER  II. 

ON  a  certain  time,  after  we  had  passed  the  Mississippi, 
we  halted  for  the  night  at  Cedar  River,  the  banks 
of  which,  grown  over  with  cottonwood,  gave  us  assur- 
ance of  fuel  for  the  night.  While  returning  from  the 
men  on  duty,  who  had  gone  into  the  thicket  with  axes, 
I  saw,  from  a  distance,  that  our  people,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  beautiful  weather  and  the  calm,  fair  day, 
had  wandered  out  on  the  prairie  in  every  direction.  It 
was  very  early;  we  halted  for  the  night  usually  about 
five  in  the  afternoon,  so  as  to  move  in  the  morning  at 
daybreak.  Soon  I  met  Miss  Morris.  I  dismounted  imme- 
diately, and,  leading  my  horse  by  the  bridle,  approached 
the  young  lady,  happy  that  I  could  be  alone  with  her 
even  for  a  while.  I  inquired  then  why  she,  though  alone 
and  so  young,  had  undertaken  a  journey  which  might 
wear  out  the  strongest  man. 

"Never  should  I  have  consented  to  receive  you  into 
our  caravan,"  said  I,  "  had  I  not  thought  during  the  first 
few  days  of  our  journey  that  you  were  the  daughter  of 
Aunt  Atkins ;  now  it  is  too  late  to  turn  back.  But,  my 
dear  child,  will  you  be  strong  enough  ?  You  must  be 
ready  to  find  the  journey  hereafter  less  easy  than  hitherto." 

"  I  know  all  this,"  answered  she,  without  raising  her 
pensive  blue  eyes,  "  but  I  must  go  on,  and  I  am  happy 
indeed  that  I  cannot  go  back.  My  father  is  in  California, 
and  from  the  letter  which  he  sent  me  by  way  of  Cape 
Horn,  I  learn  that  for  some  months  he  has  been  ill  of  a 
fever  in  Sacramento.  Poor  father !  he  was  accustomed 
to  comfort  and  my  care,  —  and  it  was  only  through  love 
of  me  that  he  went  to  California.  I  do  not  know  whether 


350  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

I  shall  find  him  alive ;  but  I  feel  that  in  going  to  him,  I 
am  only  fulfilling  a  duty  that  is  dear  to  me." 

There  was  no  answer  to  such  words ;  moreover,  all 
that  I  might  object  to  this  undertaking  would  be  too 
late.  I  inquired  then  of  Lillian  for  nearer  details  touch- 
ing her  father.  These  she  gave  with  great  pleasure,  and 
I  learned  that  in  Boston  Mr.  Morris  had  been  judge  of 
the  Supreme  Court,  or  highest  tribunal  of  the  State ;  that 
he  had  lost  his  property,  and  had  gone  to  the  newly  dis- 
covered mines  of  California  in  the  hope  of  acquiring  a 
new  fortune,  and  bringing  back  to  his  daughter,  whom 
he  loved  more  than  life,  her  former  social  position. 
Meanwhile,  he  caught  a  fever  in  the  unwholesome  Sacra- 
mento valley,  and  thinking  that  death  was  near,  he  sent 
Lillian  his  last  blessing.  She  sold  all  the  property  that 
he  had  left  with  her,  and  resolved  to  hasten  to  him.  At 
first  she  intended  to  go  by  sea ;  but  an  acquaintance  with 
Aunt  Atkins  made  by  chance  two  days  before  the  caravan 
started,  changed  her  mind.  Aunt  Atkins,  who  was  from 
Tennessee,  having  had  her  ears  filled  with  tales  which 
friends  of  mine  from  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  had 
told  her  and  others  of  my  daring  expeditions  to  the  famed 
Arkansas,  of  my  experience  in  journeys  over  the  prairies, 
and  the  care  which  I  gave  to  the  weak  (this  I  consider  as 
a  simple  duty),  described  me  in  such  colors  before  Lillian 
that  the  girl,  without  hesitating  longer,  joined  the  caravan 
going  under  my  leadership.  To 'those  exaggerated  narra- 
tives of  Aunt  Atkins,  who  did  not  delay  to  add  that  I 
was  of  noble  birth,  it  is  necessary  to  ascribe  the  fact  that 
Miss  Morris  was  occupied  with  my  person. 

"  You  may  be  sure,"  said  I,  when  she  had  finished  her 
story,  "that  no  one  will  do  you  wrong  here,  and  that 
care  will  not  fail  you ;  as  to  your  father,  California  is  the 
healthiest  country  on  earth,  and  no  one  dies  there  of 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  351 

fever.     In  every  case,  while  I  live,  you  will  not  be  left 
alone ;  meanwhile  may  God  bless  your  sweet  face  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  captain,"  answered  she,  with  emotion,  and 
we  went  on ;  but  my  heart  beat  with  more  violence. 
Gradually  our  conversation  became  livelier,  and  no  one 
could  foresee  that  that  calmness  above  us  would  grow 
cloudy. 

"  But  all  here  are  kind  to  you,  Miss  Morris,  are  they 
not  ? "  asked  I  again,  not  supposing  that  just  that  ques- 
tion would  be  the  cause  of  misunderstanding. 

"  Oh,  yes,  all,"  said  she,  "  Aunt  Atkins  and  Aunt  Gros- 
venor,  and  Henry  Simpson  too  is  very  good." 

This  mention  of  Simpson  pained  me  suddenly,  like  the 
bite  of  a  snake. 

"  Henry  is  a  mule-driver,"  answered  I  curtly,  "  and  has 
to  care  for  the  wagons." 

But  Lillian,  occupied  with  the  course  of  her  own 
thoughts,  had  not  noticed  the  change  in  my  voice,  and 
spoke  on  as  if  to  herself,— 

"  He  has  an  honest  heart,  and  I  shall  be  grateful  to 
him  all  my  life." 

"  Miss  Morris,"  interrupted  I,  cut  to  the  quick,  "  you 
may  even  give  him  your  hand.  I  wonder,  however,  that 
you  choose  me  as  a  confidant  of  your  feelings." 

When  I  said  that  she  looked  at  me  with  astonishment 
but  made  no  reply,  and  we  went  on  together  in  disagree- 
able silence.  I  knew  not  what  to  say,  though  my  heart 
was  full  of  bitterness  and  anger  toward  her  and  myself. 
I  felt  simply  conquered  by  jealousy  of  Simpson,  but  still 
I  could  not  fight  against  it.  The  position  seemed  to  me 
so  unendurable  that  I  said  all  at  once  briefly  and  dryly : 

"Good  night,  Miss  Morris  !" 

"  Good  night,"  answered  she  calmly,  turning  her  head 
to  hide  two  tears  that  were  flowing  down  her  cheeks. 


352  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

I  mounted  my  horse  and  rode  away  again  toward  the 
point  whence  the  sound  of  axes  came,  and  where,  among 
others,  Henry  Simpson  was  cutting  a  cottonwood.  After 
a  while  I  was  seized  by  a  certain  measureless  regret,  for  it 
seemed  to  me  that  those  two  tears  were  falling  on  my 
heart.  I  turned  my  horse,  and  next  minute  I  was  near 
Lillian  a  second  time. 

"  Why  are  you  crying,  Miss  Morris  ? "  asked  I. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  she,  "  I  know  that  you  are  of  a  noble 
family,  Aunt  Atkins  told  me  that,  and  you  have  been  so 
kind  to  me." 

She  did  everything  not  to  cry ;  but  she  could  not  re- 
strain herself,  and  could  not  finish  her  answer,  for  tears 
choked  her  voice.  The  poor  thing  !  she  had  been  touched 
to  the  bottom  of  her  pensive  soul  by  my  answer  regarding 
Simpson,  for  there  was  evident  in  it  a  certain  aristocratic 
contempt ;  but  I  was  not  even  dreaming  of  aristocracy,  — 
I  was  simply  jealous ;  and  now,  seeing  her  so  unhappy,  I 
wanted  to  seize  my  own  collar  and  throttle  myself. 
Grasping  her  hand,  I  said  with  animation,  — 

"  Lillian,  Lillian,  you  did  not  understand  me.  I  take 
God  to  witness  that  no  pride  was  speaking  through  me. 
Look  at  me :  I  have  nothing  in  the  world  but  these  two 
hands,  —  what  is  my  descent  to  me  ?  Something  else 
pained  me,  and  I  wanted  to  go  away;  but  I  could  not 
support  your  tears.  And  I  swear  to  you  also,  that  what 
I  have  said  to  you  pains  me  more  than  it  does  you.  You 
are  not  an  object  of  indifference  to  me,  Lillian.  Oh,  not 
at  all !  for  if  you  were,  what  you  think  of  Henry  would 
not  concern  me.  He  is  an  honest  fellow,  but  that  does 
not  touch  the  question.  You  see  how  much  your  tears 
cost  me ;  then  forgive  me  as  sincerely  as  I  entreat  your 
forgiveness." 

Speaking  in  this  way  I  raised  her  hand  and  pressed  it 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  353 

to  my  lips ;  that  high  proof  of  respect,  and  the  truthful- 
ness which  sounded  in  my  request,  quieted  the  maiden 
somewhat.  She  did  not  cease  at  once  to  weep,  but  her 
tears  were  of  another  kind,  for  a  smile  was  visible 
through  them,  as  a  sun-ray  through  mist.  Something 
too  was  sticking  in  my  throat,  and  I  could  not  stifle  my 
emotion.  A  tender  feeling  had  mastered  my  heart.  We 
walked  on  in  silence,  and  round  about  us  the  world  was 
pleasant  and  sweet. 

The  day  was  inclining  toward  evening ;  the  weather 
was  beautiful,  and  in  the  air,  already  dusky,  there  was 
so  much  light  that  the  whole  prairie,  the  distant  groups 
of  cottonwood-trees,  the  wagons  in  our  train,  and  the 
flocks  of  wild  geese  flying  northward  through  the  sky, 
seemed  golden  and  rosy.  Not  the  least  wind  moved  the 
grass ;  from  a  distance  came  to  us  the  sound  of  rapids, 
which  the  Cedar  Eiver  formed  in  that  place,  and  the 
neighing  of  horses  from  the  direction  of  the  camp.  That 
evening  with  such  charms,  that  virgin  land,  and  the 
presence  of  Lillian,  brought  me  to  such  a  state  of  mind 
that  my  soul  was  almost  ready  to  fly  out  of  me  to  the 
sky.  I  thought  myself  a  shaken  bell,  as  it  were.  At 
moments  I  wanted  to  take  Lillian's  hand  again,  raise  it  to 
my  lips,  and  not  put  it  down  for  a  long  time ;  but  I 
feared  lest  this  might  offend  her.  Meanwhile  she  walked 
on  near  me,  calm,  mild,  and  thoughtful.  Her  tears  had 
dried  already ;  at  moments  she  raised  her  bright  eyes  to 
me ;  then  we  began  to  speak  again,  —  and  so  reached  the 
camp. 

That  day,  in  which  I  had  experienced  so  many  emotions, 
was  to  end  joyfully,  for  the  people,  pleased  with  the  beau- 
tiful weather,  had  resolved  to  have  a  "  picnic,"  or  open  air 
festival.  After  a  supper  more  abundant  than  usual,  one 
great  fire  was  kindled,  before  which  there  was  to  be  danc- 

23 


I 
354  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

ing.  Henry  Simpson  had  cleared  away  the  grass  pur- 
posely from  a  space  of  many  square  yards,  and  sprinkled  it 
with  sand  brought  from  Cedar  River.  When  the  spectators 
had  assembled  on  the  place  thus  prepared,  Simpson  began 
to  dance  a  jig,  with  the  accompaniment  of  negro  flutes,  to 
the  admiration  of  all.  With  hands  hanging  at  his  sides  he 
kept  his  whole  body  motionless  ;  but  his  feet  were  work- 
ing so  nimbly,  striking  the  ground  in  turn  with  heel  and 
toe,  that  the  eye  could  hardly  follow  their  movements. 

The  flutes  played  madly ;  a  second  dancer  came  out,  a 
third,  then  a  fourth,  — and  the  fun  was  universal.  The 
audience  joined  the  negroes  who  were  playing  on  the 
flutes,  and  thrummed  on  tin  pans,  intended  for  washing 
the  gold-bearing  earth,  or  kept  time  with  pieces  of  ox-ribs 
held  between  the  fingers  of  each  hand,  which  gave  out  a 
sound  like  the  clatter  of  castanets. 

Suddenly  the  cry  of  "  minstrels  !  minstrels  !  "  was  heard 
through  the  whole  camp.  The  audience  formed  a  circle 
around  the  dancing-place  ;  into  this  stepped  our  negroes, 
Jim  and  Crow.  Jim  held  a  little  drum  covered  with 
snake-skin,  Crow  the  pieces  of  ox-rib  mentioned  already. 
For  a  time  they  stared  at  each  other,  rolling  the  whites 
of  their  eyes ;  then  they  began  to  sing  a  negro  song,  in- 
terrupted by  stamping  and  violent  springs  of  the  body ; 
at  times  the  song  was  sad,  at  times  wild.  The  prolonged 
"  Dinah  !  ah  !  ah  ! "  with  which  each  verse  ended,  changed 
at  length  into  a  shout,  and  almost  into  a  howling  like  that 
of  beasts.  As  the  dancers  warmed  up  and  grew  excited, 
their  movements  became  wilder,  and  at  last  they  fell  to 
butting  each  other  with  blows  from  which  European  skulls 
would  have  cracked  like  nutshells.  Those  black  figures, 
shone  upon  by  the  bright  gleam  of  the  fire  and  springing 
in  wild  leaps,  presented  a  spectacle  truly  fantastic.  With 
their  shouts  and  the  sounds  of  the  drum,  pipes,  and  tin 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS.  355 

pans,  and  the  click  of  the  bones,  were  mingled  shouts  of 
the  spectators,  "  Hurrah  for  Jim !  Hurrah  for  Crow ! " 
and  then  shots  from  revolvers. 

When  at  last  the  black  men  were  wearied  and  had 
fallen  on  the  ground,  they  began  to  labor  with  their 
breasts  and  to  pant.  I  commanded  to  give  each  a  drink 
of  brandy ;  this  put  them  on  their  feet  again.  But  at 
that  moment  the  people  began  to  call  for  a  "  speech."  In 
an  instant  the  uproar  and  music  ceased.  I  had  to  drop 
Lillian's  arm,  climb  to  the  seat  of  a  wagon,  and  turn  to 
those  present.  When  I  looked  from  my  height  on  those 
forms  illuminated  by  the  fires,  forms  large,  broad- 
shouldered,  bearded,  with  knives  at  their  girdles,  and 
hats  with  torn  crowns,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  in 
some  theatre,  or  had  become  a  chieftain  of  robbers.  They 
were  honest,  brave  hearts,  however,  though  the  rough  life 
of  more  than  one  of  these  men  was  stormy  perhaps  and 
half  wild  ;  but  here  we  formed,  as  it  were,  a  little  world 
torn  away  from  the  rest  of  society  and  confined  to  our- 
selves, destined  to  a  common  fate  and  threatened  by  com- 
mon dangers.  Here  shoulder  had  to  touch  shoulder ; 
each  felt  that  he  was  brother  to  the  next  man  ;  the  road- 
less places  and  boundless  deserts  with  which  we  were 
surrounded  commanded  those  hardy  miners  to  love  one 
another.  The  sight  of  Lillian,  the  poor  defenceless  maiden, 
fearless  among  them  and  safe  as  if  under  her  father's  roof, 
brought  those  thoughts  to  my 'head  ;  hence  I  told  every- 
thing, just  as  I  felt  it,  and  as  befitted  a  soldier  leader  who 
was  at  the  same  time  a  brother  of  wanderers.  Every 
little  while  they  interrupted  me  with  cries,  "  Hurrah  for 
the  Pole  !  Hurrah  for  the  captain !  Hurrah  for  Big 
Ralph  !  "  and  with  clapping  of  hands  ;  but  what  made  me 
happiest  of  all  was  to  see  between  the  network  of  those 
sunburnt  strong  hands  one  pair  of  small  palms,  rosy  with 


356  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

the  gleain  of  the  fire  and  flying  like  a  pair  of  white 
doves.  I  felt  then  at  once,  What  care  I  for  the  desert, 
the  wild  beasts,  the  Indians  and  the  "  outlaws  "  ?  and  cried 
with  mighty  ardor,  "  I  will  conquer  anything,  I  will  kill 
anything  that  comes  in  my  way,  and  lead  the  train  even 
to  the  end  of  the  earth,  —  and  may  God  forget  my  right 
hand,  if  this  is  not  true ! "  A  still  louder  "  Hurrah  ! " 
answered  these  words,  and  all  began  to  sing  with  great 
enthusiasm  the  emigrants'  song,  "  I  crossed  the  Missis- 
sippi, I  will  cross  the  Missouri."  Then  Smith,  the  oldest 
among  the  emigrants,  a  miner  from  near  Pittsburgh  in 
Pennsylvania,  spoke  in  answer.  He  thanked  me  in  the 
name  of  the  whole  company,  and  lauded  my  skill  in  lead- 
ing the  caravan.  After  Smith,  from  nearly  every  wagon  a 
man  spoke.  Some  made  very  amusing  remarks,  for  in- 
tance  Henry  Simpson,  who  cried  out  every  little  while, 
"  Gentlemen !  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  don't  tell  the  truth  ! " 
When  the  speakers  had  grown  hoarse  at  last,  the  flutes 
sounded,  the  bones  rattled,  and  the  men  began  to  dance 
a  jig  again. 

Night  had  fallen  completely ;  the  moon  came  out  in 
the  sky  and  shone  so  brightly  that  the  flame  of  the  fires 
almost  paled  before  its  gleams ;  the  people  and  the  wagons 
were  illuminated  doubly  by  a  red  and  a  white  light.  That 
was  a  beautiful  night.  The  uproar  of  our  camp  offered  a 
strange  but  pleasing  contrast  to  the  calmness  and  deep 
slumber  of  the  prairie. 

Taking  Lillian's  arm,  I  went  with  her  around  the  whole 
camp  ;  our  gaze  passed  from  the  fires  to  the  distance,  and 
was  lost  in  the  waves  of  the  tall  and  dark  grasses  of  the 
prairie,  silvery  from  the  rays  of  the  moon  and  as  myste- 
rious as  spirits.  We  strolled  alone  in  that  way.  Mean- 
while, at  one  of  the  fires,  two  Scottish  Highlanders  began 
to  play  on  pipes  their  plaintive  air  of  "  Bonnie  Dundee." 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  357 

We  both  stopped  at  a  distance  and  listened  for  some  time 
in  silence  ;  all  at  once  I  looked  at  Lillian,  she  dropped 
her  eyes,  —  and  without  knowing  myself  why  I  did  so, 
I  pressed  to  my  heart  long  and  powerfully  that  hand 
which  she  had  rested  on  my  arm.  In  Lillian  too  the  poor 
heart  began  to  beat  with  such  force  that  I  felt  it  as  clearly 
as  if  on  my  palm ;  we  trembled,  for  we  saw  that  some- 
thing was  rising  between  us,  that  that  something  was 
conquering,  and  that  we  would  not  be  to  each  other  as 
we  had  been  hitherto.  As  to  rne  I  was  swimming  already 
whithersoever  that  current  was  bearing  me.  I  forgot 
that  the  night  was  bright,  that  the  fires  were  not  distant, 
and  that  there  were  people  around  them ;  and  I  wanted 
to  fall  at  her  feet  immediately,  or  at  least  to  look  into 
her  eyes.  But  she,  though  leaning  on  my  arm,  turned  her 
head,  as  if  glad  to  hide  her  face  in  the  shade.  I  wished  to 
speak  but  I  could  not ;  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should 
call  out  with  some  voice  not  my  own,  or  if  I  should  say 
the  words  "  I  love  "  to  Lillian  I  should  drop  to  the  earth. 
I  was  not  bold,  being  young  then,  and  was  led  not  by  my 
thoughts  simply,  but  by  my  soul  too ;  and  I  felt  this  also 
clearly,  that  if  I  should  say  "  I  love,"  a  curtain  would  fall 
on  my  past;  one  door  would  close  and  another  would 
open,  through  which  I  should  pass  into  a  certain  new 
region.  Hence,  though  I  saw  happiness  beyond  that 
threshold  I  halted,  for  this  very  reason  it  may  be,  —  that 
the  brightness  beating  from  out  that  place  dazzled  me. 
Besides,  when  loving  comes  not  from  the  lips,  but  the 
heart,  there  is  perhaps  nothing  so  difficult  to  speak  about. 

I  had  dared  to  press  Lillian's  hand  to  my  breast ;  we 
were  silent,  for  I  had  not  the  boldness  to  mention  love, 
and  I  had  no  wish  to  speak  of  aught  else,  —  I  could  not 
at  such  a  time. 

It  ended  with  this,  that  we  both  raised  our  heads  and 


358  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

looked  at  the  stars,  like  people  who  are  praying.  Then 
some  one  at  the  great  fire  called  me ;  we  returned ;  the 
festival  had  closed,  but  to  end  it  worthily  and  well,  the 
emigrants  had  determined  to  sing  a  psalm  before  going  to 
rest.  The  men  had  uncovered  their  heads,  and  though 
among  them  were  persons  of  various  faiths,  all  knelt  on 
the  grass  of  the  prairie  and  sang  "  Wandering  in  the 
Wilderness."  The  sight  was  impressive.  At  moments  of 
rest  the  silence  became  so  perfect  that  the  crackling  of 
sparks  in  the  fire  could  be  heard,  and  from  the  river  the 
sound  of  the  waterfalls  came  to  us. 

Kneeling  near  Lillian,  I  looked  once  or  twice  at  her 
face ;  her  eyes  were  uplifted  and  wonderfully  shining,  her 
hair  was  a  little  disarranged ;  and,  singing  with  devotion, 
she  was  so  like  an  angel,  that  it  seemed  almost  possible 
to  pray  to  her. 

After  the  singing,  the  people  went  to  their  wagons.  T, 
according  to  custom,  repaired  to  the  sentries,  and  then  to 
my  rest,  like  the  others.  But  this  time  when  the  mos- 
quitoes began  to  sing  in  my  ears,  as  they  did  every  even- 
ing, "  Lillian  !  Lillian  !  Lillian  ! "  I  knew  that  in  that 
wagon  beyond  there  was  sleeping  the  sight  of  my  eye  and 
the  soul  of  my  soul,  and  that  in  all  the  world  there  was 
nothing  dearer  to  me  than  that  maiden. 


CHAPTEK  III. 

AT  dawn  the  following  day  we  passed  Cedar  River  suc- 
cessfully and  came  out  on  a  level,  broad  prairie,  stretch- 
ing between  that  river  and  the  Winnebago,  which  curved 
imperceptibly  to  the  south,  toward  the  belt  of  forests 
lying  along  the  lower  boundary  of  Iowa.  From  the 
morning  Lillian  had  not  dared  to  look  in  my  eyes.  I  saw 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  359 

that  she  was  thoughtful ;  it  seemed  as  though  she  were 
ashamed  of  something,  or  troubled  for  some  cause;  but 
still  what  sin  had  we  committed  the  evening  before  ? 
She  scarcely  left  the  wagon.  Aunt  Atkins  and  Aunt 
Grosvenor,  thinking  that  she  was  ill,  surrounded  her  with 
care  and  tenderness.  I  alone  knew  what  that  meant,  — 
I  knew  that  it  was  neither  pangs  of  conscience,  nor  weak- 
ness ;  it  was  the  struggle  of  an  innocent  being  with  the 
feeling  that  a  power  new  and  unknown  is  bearing  it  on, 
like  a  leaf,  to  some  place  far  away.  It  was  a  clear  insight 
that  there  was  no  help,  and  that  sooner  or  later  she 
would  have  to  weaken  and  yield  to  the  will  of  that  power, 
forget  everything,  —  and  only  love. 

A  pure  soul  draws  back  and  is  afraid  on  the  threshold 
of  love,  but  feeling  that  it  will  cross,  it  weakens.  Lillian 
therefore  was  as  if  wearied  by  a  dream;  but  when  I 
understood  all  that,  the  breath  in  my  breast  was  nearly 
stopped  from  joy.  I  know  not  whether  it  was  an  honor- 
able feeling,  but  when  in  the  morning  I  flew  past  her 
wagon  and  saw  her,  broken  like  a  flower,  I  felt  something 
akin  to  what  a  bird  of  prey  feels,  when  it  knows  that  the 
dove  will  not  escape.  And  still  I  would  not  do  an  injus- 
tice to  that  dove  for  any  treasure  on  earth,  for  with  love 
I  had  in  my  heart  at  the  same  time  an  immense  com- 
passion. A  wonderful  thing  however:  notwithstanding 
my  feeling  for  Lillian,  the  whole  day  passed  for  us  as  if 
in  mutual  offence,  or  at  least  in  perplexity.  I  was  rack- 
ing my  head  to  discover  how  I  could  be  alone  with  her 
even  for  a  moment,  but  could  not  discover.  Fortunately 
Aunt  Atkins  came  to  my  aid ;  she  declared  that  the  little 
one  needed  more  exercise,  that  confinement  in  that  close 
wagon  was  injuring  her  health.  I  fell  upon  the  thought 
that  she  ought  to  ride  on  horseback,  and  ordered  Simpson 
to  saddle  a  horse  for  her ;  and  though  there  were  no  side- 


360  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

saddles  in  the  train,  one  of  those  Mexican  saddles  with  a 
high  pommel  which  women  use  everywhere  on  frontier 
prairies,  could  serve  her  very  well.  I  forbade  Lillian 
to  loiter  behind  far  enough  to  drop  out  of  view.  To  be 
lost  in  the  open  prairie  was  somewhat  difficult,  because 
people,  whom  I  sent  out  for  game,  circled  about  a  con- 
siderable distance  in  every  direction.  There  was  no  dan- 
ger from  Indians,  for  that  part  of  the  prairie,  as  far  as 
the  Winnebago,  was  visited  by  Pawnees  only  during 
the  great  hunts,  which  had  not  begun  yet.  But  the 
southern  forest-tract  abounded  in  wild  beasts,  not  all  of 
which  were  grass  eating ;  wariness,  therefore,  was  far 
from  superfluous. 

To  tell  the  truth  I  thought  that  Lillian  would  keep 
near  me  for  safety ;  this  would  permit  us  to  be  alone 
rather  frequently.  Usually  I  pushed  forward  some  dis- 
tance in  time  of  march,  having  before  me  only  the  two 
half-breed  scouts,  and  behind  the  whole  caravan.  So  it 
happened  in  fact,  and  I  was  both  truly  and  inexpressi- 
bly happy  the  first  day,  when  I  saw  my  sweet  Amazon 
coming  on  at  a  light  gallop  from  the  direction  of  the 
train.  The  movement  of  the  horse  unwound  her  tresses 
somewhat,  and  care  for  her  skirt,  which  was  the  least 
trifle  short  for  the  saddle,  had  painted  her  face  with  a 
charming  anxiety.  When  she  had  ridden  up  she  was  like 
a  rose  ;  for  she  knew  that  she  was  going  into  a  trap  laid 
by  me  so  that  we  might  be  alone  with  each  other,  and 
knowing  this  she  came,  though  blushing,  and  as  if  un- 
willing, feigning  that  she  knew  nothing.  My  heart  beat 
as  if  I  had  been  a  young  student ;  and,  when  our  horses 
were  abreast,  I  was  angry  with  myself  because  I  knew 
not  what  to  say.  At  the  same  time  such  sweet  and  pow- 
erful desires  began  to  pass  between  us  that  I,  urged  by 
some  unseen  power,  bent  toward  Lillian  as  if  to  straighten 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  361 

something  in  the  mane  of  her  horse,  and  meanwhile  I 
pressed  my  lips  to  her  hand,  which  was  resting  on  the 
pommel  of  the  saddle.  A  certain  unknown  and  un- 
speakable happiness,  greater  and  keener  than  any  de- 
light that  I  had  known  in  my  life  till  that  moment, 
passed  through  my  bones.  I  pressed  that  little  hand  to 
my  heart,  and  told  Lillian,  that  if  God  had  bestowed 
all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  on  me,  and  all  the  treas- 
ures in  existence,  I  would  not  -give  for  anything  one 
tress  of  her  hair,  for  she  had  taken  me  soul  and  body 
forever. 

"  Lillian,  Lillian,"  said  I  further,  "  I  will  never  leave 
you.  I  will  follow  you  through  mountains  and  deserts ; 
I  will  kiss  your  feet  and  I  will  pray  to  you ;  only  love 
me  a  little,  only  tell  me  that  in  your  heart  I  mean 
something." 

Thus  speaking,  I  thought  that  my  bosom  would  burst, 
when  she  said  with  the  greatest  confusion,  — 

"  0  Ealph  !  you  know  well !  you  know  everything !  " 

I  did  not  know  just  this,  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry, 
whether  to  run  away  or  remain;  and,  as  I  hope  for 
salvation  to-day,  I  felt  saved,  for  nothing  in  the  world 
then  was  lacking  to  me. 

Thenceforth,  so  far  as  my  occupations  permitted,  we 
were  always  together.  And  those  occupations  decreased 
every  day  till  we  reached  the  Missouri.  Perhaps  no 
caravan  had  more  success  than  ours  during  the  first 
month  of  the  journey.  Men  and  animals  were  growing 
accustomed  to  order  and  skilled  in  travelling;  hence  I 
had  less  need  to  look  after  them,  while  the  confidence 
which  the  people  gave  me  upheld  perfect  order  in  the 
caravan.  Besides,  abundance  of  provisions  and  the  fine 
spring  weather  roused  joyfulness  and  increased  good 
health.  I  convinced  myself  daily,  that  my  bold  plan  of 


362  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

passing,  not  by  the  usual  route  through  St.  Louis  and 
Kansas,  but  through  Iowa  and  Nebraska,  was  best.  There, 
heat  almost  unendurable  tortured  people,  and  in  the  un- 
healthy region  between  the  Mississippi  and  Missouri, 
fevers  and  other  diseases  thinned  the  ranks  of  emigrants ; 
here,  because  of  a  cooler  climate,  cases  of  weakness  were 
fewer,  and  our  labor  was  less. 

It  is  true  that  the  road  by  St.  Louis  was  in  the  earlier 
part  of  it  freer  from  Indians ;  but  my  train,  composed  of 
two  or  three  hundred  men  well  furnished  with  weapons 
and  ready  for  fighting,  had  no  cause  to  fear  roving  tribes, 
especially  those  inhabiting  Iowa,  who  through  meeting 
white  men  more  frequently,  and  having  greater  experience 
of  what  white  hands  could  do,  had  not  the  courage  to 
rush  at  large  parties.  It  was  only  needful  to  guard 
against  stampedes,  or  night  attacks  on  mules  and  horses, 
—  the  loss  of  draught-animals  puts  a  caravan  on  the 
prairies  in  a  terrible  position.  But  against  that  we  put 
diligence  and  the  experience  of  sentries  who,  for  the 
greater  part,  were  as  well  acquainted  with  the  stratagems 
of  Indians  as  I  was. 

When  once  I  had  introduced  travelling  discipline  and 
made  men  accustomed  to  it,  I  had  incomparably  less  to 
do  during  daylight,  and  could  give  more  time  to  the 
feelings  which  had  seized  on  my  heart.  In  the  evening 
I  went  to  sleep  with  the  thought,  "  To-morrow  I  shall  see 
Lillian  ; "  in  the  morning  I  said  to  myself,  "  To-day  I 
shall  see  Lillian ; "  and  every  day  I  was  happier,  and 
every  day  more  in  love.  In  the  caravan  people  began  by 
degrees  to  notice  this ;  but  no  one  took  it  ill  of  me,  for 
Lillian  and  I  possessed  the  good-will  of  those  people. 
Once  old  Smith  said  in  passing,  "  God  bless  you,  captain, 
and  you,  Lillian."  That  connecting  of  our  names  made 
us  happy  all  day.  Aunt  Grosvenor  and  Aunt  Atkins 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  363 

whispered  something  frequently  in  Lillian's  ear,  which 
made  her  blush  like  the  dawn,  but  she  would  never  tell 
me  what  it  was.  Henry  Simpson  looked  on  us  rather 
gloomily,  —  perhaps  he  was  forging  some  plan  in  his 
soul,  but  I  paid  no  heed  to  him. 

Every  morning  at  four  I  was  at  the  head  of  the  cara- 
van ;  before  me  the  scouts,  some  fifteen  hundred  yards 
distant,  sang  songs,  taught  them  by  their  Indian  mothers ; 
behind  me  at  the  same  distance  moved  the  caravan,  like 
a  white  ribbon  on  the  prairie,  —  and  what  a  wonderful 
moment,  when,  about  two  hours  later,  I  hear  on  a  sudden 
behind  me  the  tramp  of  a  horse.  I  look,  and  behold 
the  sight  of  my  soul,  my  beloved  is  approaching.  The 
morning  breeze  bears  behind  her  her  hair,  which  either 
had  been  loosened  from  the  movement,  or  badly  fastened 
on  purpose,  for  the  little  rogue  knew  that  she  looked 
better  that  way,  that  I  liked  her  that  way,  and  that 
when  the  wind  threw  the  tress  on  me  I  pressed  it  to  my 
lips.  I  feign  not  to  notice  her  tricks,  and  in  this  agree- 
able meeting  the  morning  begins  for  us.  I  had  taught 
her  the  Polish  phrase,  "  Dzien  dobry  "  (good  morning). 
When  I  hear  her  pronouncing  those  words,  she  seems 
still  dearer ;  the  memory  of  my  country,  of  my  family,  of 
years  gone  by,  of  that  which  had  been,  of  that  which  had 
passed,  flies  before  my  vision  on  that  prairie  like  mews  of 
the  ocean.  More  than  once  I  would  have  broken  out  in 
weeping,  but  from  shame  I  restrained  with  my  eyelids  the 
tears  that  were  ready  to  flow.  She,  seeing  that  the  heart 
was  melting  in  me,  would  repeat  like  a  trained  starling, 
"  Dzien  dobry  !  dzien  dobry  !  dzien  dobry  !  "  and  how  was 
I  not  to  love  my  starling  beyond  everything  ?  I  taught 
her  then  other  phrases  ;  and  when  her  lips  struggled  with 
our  difficult  sounds,  and  I  laughed  at  a  faulty  pronun- 
ciation, she  pouted  like  a  little  child,  feigning  resentment 


364  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

and  anger.  But  we  had  no  quarrels,  and  once  only  a 
cloud  flew  between  us.  One  morning  I  pretended  to 
tighten  a  strap  on  her  stirrup,  but  in  truth  the  leopard 
Ulan  was  roused  in  me,  and  I  began  to  kiss  her  foot,  or 
rather  the  poor  shoe  worn  out  in  the  wilderness.  Then 
she  drew  her  foot  close  to  the  horse,  and  repeating,  "  No, 
Ralph !  no !  no ! "  sprang  to  one  side ;  and  though  I  im- 
plored and  strove  to  pacify  her  she  would  not  come  near 
me.  She  did  not  return  to  the  caravan,  however,  fearing 
to  pain  me  too  much.  I  feigned  a  sorrow  a  hundred 
times  greater  than  I  felt  in  reality,  and  sinking  into 
silence,  rode  on  as  if  all  things  had  ended  on  earth  for  me. 
I  knew  that  compassion  would  stir  in  her,  as  indeed  it 
did ;  for  soon,  alarmed  at  my  silence,  she  began  to  ride  up 
at  one  side  and  look  at  my  eyes,  like  a  child  which  wants 
to  know  if  its  mother  is  angry  yet,  —  and  I,  wishing  to 
preserve  a  gloomy  visage,  had  to  turn  aside  to  avoid 
laughing  aloud. 

But  this  was  only  one  time.  Usually  we  were  as  glad- 
some as  prairie  squirrels,  and  sometimes,  God  forgive  me, 
I,  the  leader  of  that  caravan,  became  a  child  with  her. 
More  than  once  when  we  were  riding  side  by  side  I  would 
turn  on  a  sudden,  saying  to  her  that  I  had  something 
important  and  new  to  tell,  and  when  she  held  her  inquisi- 
tive ear  I  whispered  into  it,  "I  love."  Then  she  also 
whispered  into  my  ear  in  answer,  with  a  smile  and 
blush,  "  I  also ! "  And  thus  we  confided  our  secrets  to 
each  other  on  the  prairie,  where  the  wind  alone  could 
overhear  us. 

In  this  manner  day  shot  after  day  so  quickly,  that,  as 
I  thought,  the  morning  seemed  to  touch  the  evening  like 
links  in  a  chain.  At  times  some  event  of  the  journey 
would  vary  such  pleasant  monotony.  A  certain  Sunday 
the  half-breed  Wichita  lassoed  an  antelope  of  a  large 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  365 

kind,  and  with  her  a  fawn  which  I  gave  to  Lillian,  who 
made  for  it  a  collar  on  which  was  put  a  bell,  taken  from 
a  mule.  This  fawn  we  called  Katty  In  a  week  it  was 
tame,  and  'ate  from  our  hands.  During  the  march  I 
would  ride  on  one  side  of  Lillian,  and  Katty  would  run 
on  the  other,  raising  its  great  black  eyes  and  begging 
with  a  bleat  for  caresses. 

Beyond  the  Winnebago  we  came  out  on  a  plain  as  level 
as  a  table,  broad,  rich,  primeval.  The  scouts  vanished 
from  our  eyes  in  the  grass  at  times ;  our  horses  waded,  as 
if  in  a  river.  I  showed  Lillian  that  world  altogether  new 
to  her,  and  when  she  was  delighted  with  its  beauties,  I 
felt  proud  that  that  kingdom  of  mine  was  so  pleasing  to 
her.  It  was  spring,  —  April  was  barely  reaching  its  end, 
the  time  of  richest  growth  for  grasses  of  all  sorts.  What 
was  to  bloom  on  the  plains  was  blooming  already. 

In  the  evening  such  intoxicating  odors  came  from  the 
prairie,  as  from  a  thousand  censers ;  in  the  day,  when  the 
wind  blew  and  shook  the  flowery  expanses,  the  eye  was 
just  pained  with  the  glitter  of  red,  blue,  yellow,  and  colors 
of  all  kinds.  From  the  dense  bed  shot  up  the  slender 
stalks  of  yellow  flowers,  like  our  mullein  ;  around  these 
wound  the  silver  threads  of  a  plant  called  "  tears,"  whose 
clusters,  composed  of  transparent  little  balls,  are  really 
like  tears.  My  eyes,  used  to  reading  in  the  prairie,  dis- 
covered repeatedly  plants  that  I  knew  :  now  it  was  the 
large-leaved  kalumna,  which  cures  wounds  ;  now  the 
plant  called  "  white  and  red  stockings,"  which  closes  its 
cups  at  the  approach  of  man  or  beast ;  finally,  "  Indian 
hatchets,"  the  odor  of  which  brings  sleep  and  almost 
takes  away  consciousness.  I  taught  Lillian  at  that  time 
to  read  in  this  Divine  book,  saying,  — 

"  You  will  live  in  forests  and  on  plains ;  it  is  well  then 
to  know  them  in  season." 


366  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

In  places  on  the  level  prairie  rose,  as  if  they  were  oases, 
groups  of  cottonwood  or  alder,  so  wreathed  with  wild 
grapes  and  lianas  that  they  could  not  be  recognized  under 
the  tendrils  and  leaves.  On  the  lianas  in  turn  climbed 
ivy  and  the  prickly,  thorny  "  wachtia,"  resembling  wild 
roses.  Flowers  were  just  dropping  at  all  points  ;  -inside, 
underneath  that  screen  and  beyond  that  wall,  was  a 
certain  mysterious  gloom ;  at  the  tree  trunks  were  sleep- 
ing great  pools  of  water  of  the  spring-time,  which  the  sun 
was  unable  to  drink  up;  from  the  tree-tops  and  among 
the  brocade  of  flowers  came  wonderful  voices  and  the 
calling  of  birds.  When  for  the  first  time  I  showed  such 
trees  to  Lillian  and  such  hanging  cascades  of  flowers,  she 
stood  as  if  fixed  to  the  earth,  repeating  with  clasped 
hands,  — 

"  Oh,  Kalph  !  is  that  real  ? " 

She  said  that  she  was  a  little  afraid  to  enter  such  a 
depth  ;  but  one  afternoon,  when  the  heat  was  great,  and 
over  the  prairie  was  flying,  as  it  were,  the  hot  breath  of 
the  Texan  wind,  we  rode  in,  and  Katty  came  after  us. 

We  stopped  at  a  little  pool,  which  reflected  our  two 
horses  and  our  two  forms ;  we  remained  in  silence  for  a 
time.  It  was  cool  there,  obscure,  solemn  as  in  a  Gothic 
cathedral,  and  somewhat  awe-inspiring.  The  light  of  day 
came  in  bedimmed,  greenish  from  the  leaves.  Some  bird, 
hidden  under  the  cupola  of  lianas,  cried,  "No  !  no!  no  !" 
as  if  warning  us  not  to  go  farther;  Katty  began  to 
tremble  and  nestle  up  to  the  horses ;  Lillian  and  I  looked 
at  each  other  suddenly,  and  for  the  first  time  our  lips 
met,  and  having  met  could  not  separate.  She  drank  my 
soul,  I  drank  her  soul.  Breath  began  to  fail  each  of  us, 
still  lips  were  on  lips.  At  last  her  eyes  were  covered 
with  mist,  and  the  hands  which  she  had  placed  on  my 
shoulders  were  trembling  as  in  a  fever :  she  was  seized 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  367 

with  a  kind  of  oblivion  of  her  own  existence,  so  that  she 
grew  faint  and  placed  her  head  on  my  bosom.  We  were 
drunk  with  each  other,  with  bliss,  and  with  ecstasy.  I 
dared  not  move;  but  because  I  had  a  soul  overfilled, 
because  I  loved  a  hundred  times  more  than  may  be 
thought  or  expressed,  I  raised  my  eyes  to  discover  if 
through  the  thick  leaves  I  could  see  the  sky. 

Eecovering  our  senses,  we  came  out  at  last  from 
beneath  the  green  density  to  the  open  prairie,  where  we 
were  surrounded  by  the  bright  sunshine  and  warm 
breeze ;  before  us  was  spread  the  broad  and  gladsome 
landscape.  Prairie  chickens  were  fluttering  in  the  grass, 
and  on  slight  elevations,  which  were  perforated  like  a 
sieve  by  prairie  dogs,  stood,  as  it  were,  an  army  of  those 
little  creatures,  which  vanished  under  the  earth  at  our 
coming ;  directly  in  front  was  the  caravan,  and  horsemen 
careering  around  it. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  we  had  come  out  of  a  dark 
chamber  to  the  white  world,  and  the  same  thought  must 
have  come  to  Lillian.  The  brightness  of  the  day  rejoiced 
me ;  but  that  excess  of  golden  light  and  the  memory  of 
rapturous  kisses,  traces  of  which  were  still  evident  on 
her  face,  penetrated  Lillian  as  it  were  with  alarm  and 
with  sadness. 

"  Ralph,  will  you  not  take  that  ill  of  me  ?  "  asked  she, 
on  a  sudden. 

"  What  comes  to  your  head,  O  my  own !  God  forget 
me  if  in  my  heart  there  is  any  feeling  but  respect  and 
the  highest  love  for  you." 

"  I  did  that  because  I  love  greatly,"  said  she ;  and 
therewith  her  lips  began  to  quiver  and  she  wept  in 
silence,  and  though  I  was  working  the  soul  out  of  my- 
self she  remained  sad  all  that  day. 


368  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

AT  last  we  came  to  the  Missouri.  Indians  chose 
generally  the  time  of  crossing  that  river  to  fall  upon 
caravans ;  defence  is  most  difficult  when  some  wagons 
are  on  one  bank,  and  some  in  the  river;  when  the 
draught-beasts  are  stubborn  and  balky,  and  disorder 
rises  among  people.  Indeed,  I  noticed,  before  our 
arrival  at  the  river,  that  Indian  spies  had  for  two  days 
been  following  us ;  hence  I  took  every  precaution,  and 
led  the  train  in  complete  military  order.  I  did  not  permit 
wagons  to  loiter  on  the  prairie,  as  in  the  eastern  districts 
of  Iowa ;  the  men  had  to  stay  together  and  be  in  perfect 
readiness  for  battle. 

When  we  had  come  to  the  bank  and  found  a  ford,  I 
ordered  two  divisions,  of  sixty  men  each,  to  intrench 
themselves  on  both  banks,  so  as  to  secure  the  passage 
under  cover  of  small  forts  and  the  muzzles  of  rifles.  The 
remaining  one  hundred  and  twenty  had  to  take  the  train 
over.  I  did  not  send  in  more  than  a  few  wagons  at  once, 
so  as  to  avoid  confusion.  With  such  an  arrangement 
everything  took  place  in  the  greatest  order,  and  attack 
became  impossible,  for  the  attackers  would  have  had  to 
carry  one  or  the  other  intrenchment  before  they  could  fall 
upon  those  who  were  crossing  the  river. 

How  far  these  precautions  were  from  being  superfluous 
the  future  made  evident,  for  two  years  later  four  hundred 
Germans  were  slaughtered  by  the  Kiowas,  at  the  place 
where  Omaha  stands  at  this  moment.  I  had  this  ad- 
vantage besides :  my  men,  who  previously  had  heard 
more  than  once  narratives,  which  went  to  the  East,  of  the 
terrible  danger  of  crossing  the  yellow  waters  of  the  Mis- 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  369 

souri,  seeing  the  firmness  and  ease  with  which  I  solved  the 
problem,  gained  blind  confidence,  and  looked  on  me  as 
some  ruling  spirit  of  the  plains. 

Daily  did  those  praises  and  that  enthusiasm  reach 
Lillian,  in  whose  loving  eyes  I  grew  to  be  a  legendary 
hero.  Aunt  Atkins  said  to  her,  "  While  your  Pole  is 
with  you,  you  may  sleep  out  in  the  rain,  for  he  won't  let 
the  drops  fall  on  you."  And  the  heart  rose  in  my  maiden 
from  those  praises.  During  the  whole  time  of  crossing  I 
could  give  her  hardly  a  moment,  and  could  only  say 
hurriedly  with  my  eyes  what  my  lips  could  not  utter. 
All  day  I  was  on  horseback,  now  on  one  bank,  now  on  the 
other,  now  in  the  water.  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  advance  as 
soon  as  possible  from  those  thick  yellow  waters,  which 
were  bearing  down  with  them  rotten  trees,  bunches  of 
leaves,  grass,  and  malodorous  rnud  from  Dakota,  infectious 
with  fever. 

Besides  this,  the  people  were  wearied  immensely,  from 
continual  watching ;  the  horses  grew  sick  from  unwhole- 
some water,  which  we  could  not  use  until  we  had  kept  it 
in  charcoal  a  number  of  hours. 

At  last,  after  eight  days'  time,  we  found  ourselves  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  river  without  having  broken  a 
wagon,  and  with  the  loss  of  only  seven  head  of  mules 
and  horses.  That  day,  however,  the  first  arrows  fell,  for 
my  men  killed,  and  afterward,  according  to  the  repulsive 
habit  of  the  plains,  scalped  three  Indians,  who  had  been 
trying  to  push  in  among  the  mules.  In  consequence  of 
this  deed  an  embassy  of  six  leading  warriors  of  the  Bloody 
Tracks,  belonging  to  the  Pawnees,  visited  us  on  the  fol- 
lowing day.  They  sat  down  at  our  fire  with  tremendous 
importance,  demanding  horses  and  mules  in  return  for 
the  dead  men,  declaring  that,  in  case  of  refusal,  five  hun- 
dred men  would  attack  us  immediately.  I  made  no  great 


370  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

account  of  those  five  hundred  warriors,  since  I  had  the 
train  in  order  and  defended  with  intrenchrnents.  I  saw 
well  that  that  embassy  had  been  sent  merely  because  those 
wild  people  had  caught  at  the  first  opportunity  to  extort 
something  without  an  attack,  in  the  success  of  which 
they  had  lost  faith.  I  should  have  driven  them  away  in 
one  moment,  had  I  not  wished  to  exhibit  them  to  Lillian. 
In  fact,  while  they  were  sitting  at  the  council-fire  motion- 
less, with  eyes  fixed  on  the  flame,  she,  concealed  in  the 
wagon,  was  looking  with  alarm  and  curiosity  at  their  dress 
trimmed  at  the  seams  with  human  hair,  their  tomahawks 
adorned  with  feathers  on  the  handles,  and  at  their  faces 
painted  black  and  red,  which  meant  war.  In  spite  of 
these  preparations,  however,  I  refused  their  demand 
sharply,  and,  passing  from  a  defensive  to  an  offensive  role, 
declared  that  if  even  one  mule  disappeared  from  the  train, 
I  would  go  to  their  tribe  myself  and  scatter  the  bones  of 
their  five  hundred  warriors  over  the  prairie. 

They  went  away,  hardly  repressing  their  rage,  but 
when  going  they  brandished  their  tomahawks  over  their 
heads  in  sign  of  war.  However,  my  words  sank  in 
their  memory  ;  for  at  the  time  of  their  departure  two 
hundred  of  my  men,  prepared  purposely,  rose  up  with 
threatening  aspect,  rattling  their  weapons,  and  gave  forth 
a  shout  of  battle.  That  readiness  made  a  deep  impression 
on  the  wild  warriors. 

Some  hours  later  Henry  Simpson,  who  at  his  own 
instance  had  gone  out  to  observe  the  embassy,  returned, 
all  panting,  with  news  that  a  considerable  division  of 
Indians  was  approaching  us. 

I,  knowing  Indian  ways  perfectly,  knew  that  those  were 
mere  threats,  for  the  Indians,  armed  with  bows  made  of 
hickory,  were  not  in  numbers  sufficient  to  meet  long 
range  Kentucky  rifles.  I  said  that  to  Lillian,  wishing  to 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  371 

quiet  her,  for  she  was  trembling  like  a  leaf ;  but  all  the 
others  were  sure  that  a  battle  was  coming ;  the  younger 
ones,  whose  warlike  spirit  was  roused,  wished  for  it  eagerly. 

In  fact,  we  heard  the  howling  of  the  red-skins  soon 
after ;  still,  they  kept  at  the  distance  of  some  gun-shots, 
as  if  seeking  a  favorable  moment. 

In  our  camp  immense  fires,  replenished  with  cotton- 
wood  and  willows,  were  burning  all  night ;  the  men  stood 
guard  around  the  wagons ;  the  women  were  singing 
psalms  from  fear ;  the  mules,  not  driven  out  to  the  usual 
night  pasture,  but  confined  behind  the  wagons,  were 
braying  and  biting  one  another ;  the  dogs,  feeling  the 
nearness  of  Indians,  were  howling,  —  in  a  word,  it  was 
noisy  and  threatening  throughout  the  camp.  In  brief 
moments  of  silence  we  heard  the  mournful  and  ominous 
howling  of  Indian  outposts,  calling  with  the  voices  of 
coyotes. 

About  midnight  the  Indians  tried  to  set  fire  to  the 
prairie,  but  the  damp  grass  of  spring  would  not  burn, 
though  for  some  days  not  a  raindrop  had  fallen  on  that 
region. 

When  riding  around  the  camp-ground  before  daybreak 
I  had  a  chance  of  seeing  Lillian  for  a  moment.  I  found 
her  sleeping  from  weariness,  with  her  head  resting  on  the 
knees  of  Aunt  Atkins,  who,  armed  with  a  bowie-knife, 
had  sworn  to  destroy  the  whole  tribe,  if  one  of  them 
dared  to  come  near  her  darling.  As  to  me,  I  looked  on 
that  fair  sleeping  face  with  the  love  not  only  of  a  man, 
but  almost  of  a  mother,  and  I  felt  equally  with  Aunt 
Atkins  that  I  would  tear  into  pieces  any  one  who  would 
threaten  my  beloved.  In  her  was  my  joy,  in  her  my 
delight ;  beyond  her  I  had  nothing  but  endless  wandering, 
tramping,  and  mishaps.  Before  my  eyes  I  had  the  best 
proof  of  this  :  in  the  distance  were  the  prairie,  the  rattle 


372  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

of  weapons,  the  night  on  horseback,  the  struggle  with 
predatory  redskin  murderers ;  nearer,  right  there  before 
my  face,  was  the  quiet  sleep  of  that  dear  one,  so  full  of 
faith  and  trust  in  me,  that  my  word  alone  had  convinced 
her  that  there  could  be  no  attack,  and  she  had  fallen 
asleep  as  full  of  confidence  as  if  under  her  father's  roof. 

When  I  looked  at  those  two  pictures,  I  felt  for  the  first 
time  how  that  adventurous  life  without  a  morrow  had 
wearied  me,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  I  should  find  rest 
and  satisfaction  with  her  alone.  "  If  only  to  California  !  " 
thought  I,  "  if  only  to  California !  But  the  toils  of  the 
journey  —  merely  one-half  of  which,  and  that  half  the 
easier,  is  over  —  are  evident  already  on  that  pallid  face  ; 
but  a  beautiful  rich  country  is  waiting  for  us  there,  with 
its  warm  sky  and  eternal  spring."  Thus  meditating,  I 
covered  the  feet  of  the  sleeper  with  my  buffalo-robe,  so 
that  the  night  cold  might  not  harm  her,  and  returned  to 
the  end  of  the  camp. 

It  was  time,  for  a  thick  mist  had  begun  to  rise  from 
the  river;  the  Indians  might  really  take  advantage  of  it 
and  try  their  fortune.  The  fires  were  dimmed  more  and 
more,  and  grew  pale.  An  hour  later  one  man  could  not 
see  another  even  ten  paces  distant.  I  gave  command  then 
to  cry  on  the  square  every  minute,  and  soon  nothing  was 
heard  in  that  camp  but  the  prolonged  "  All 's  well ! " 
which  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  like  the  words  of  a 
litany. 

But  the  Indian  camp  had  grown  perfectly  still,  as  if 
held  by  dumb  occupants.  This  alarmed  me.  At  the 
first  dawn  an  immense  weariness  mastered  us  ;  God  knows 
how  many  nights  the  majority  of  the  men  had  passed 
without  sleep,  —  besides,  the  fog,  wonderfully  penetrating, 
sent  a  chill  and  a  shiver  through  all  of  us. 

Would  it  not  be  better,  thought  I,  instead  of  standing 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS.  373 

on  one  place  and  waiting  for  what  may  please  the  Indians, 
to  attack  and  scatter  them  to  the  four  winds  ?  This  was 
not  simply  the  whim  of  an  Ulan,  but  an  absolute  need ; 
for  a  daring  and  lucky  attack  might  gain  us  great  glory, 
which,  spreading  among  the  wild  tribes,  would  give  us 
safety  for  a  long  stretch  of  road. 

Leaving  behind  me  one  hundred  and  thirty  men,  under 
the  lead  of  the  old  prairie  wolf,  Smith,  I  commanded  a 
hundred  others  to  mount,  and  we  moved  forward  some- 
what cautiously,  but  gladly,  for  the  cold  had  become 
more  annoying,  and  in  this  way  we  could  at  least  warm 
ourselves.  At  twice  the  distance  of  a  gun-shot  we  raced 
forward  at  a  gallop  with  shouting,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
musket-fire  rushed,  like  a  storm,  on  the  savages.  A  ball, 
sent  from  our  side  by  some  awkward  marksman,  whistled 
right  at  my  ear,  but  only  tore  my  cap. 

Meanwhile,  we  were  on  the  necks  of  the  Indians,  who 
expected  anything  rather  than  an  attack,  for  this  beyond 
doubt  was  the  first  time  that  emigrants  had  charged  the 
besiegers.  Great  alarm  so  blinded  them,  therefore,  that 
they  fled  in  every  direction,  howling  from  fright  like  wild 
beasts,  and  perishing  without  resistance.  A  smaller  divi- 
sion of  these  people,  pushed  to  the  river  and,  deprived  of 
retreat,  defended  themselves  so  sternly  and  stubbornly 
that  they  chose  to  rush  into  the  water  rather  than  beg  for 
life. 

Their  spears  pointed  with  sharpened  deer-horns  and 
tomahawks  made  of  hard  flint  were  not  very  dangerous, 
but  they  used  them  with  wonderful  skill.  We  burst 
through  these,  however,  in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye.  I 
took  one  prisoner,  a  sturdy  rascal,  whose  hatchet  and  arm 
I  broke  in  the  moment  of  fighting  with  hatchets. 

We  seized  a  few  tens  of  horses,  but  so  wild  and  vicious 
that  there  was  no  use  in  them.  We  made  a  few  prisoners, 


374  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

all  wounded.  I  gave  command  to  care  for  these  most 
attentively,  and  set  them  free  afterward  at  Lillian's 
request,  having  given  them  blankets,  arms,  and  horses, 
necessary  for  men  badly  wounded.  These  poor  fellows, 
believing  that  we  would  tie  them  to  stakes  for  torture, 
had  begun  to  chant  their  monotonous  death-songs,  and 
were  simply  terrified  at  first  by  what  had  happened. 
They  thought  that  we  would  liberate  only  to  hunt  them 
in  Indian  fashion ;  but  seeing  that  no  danger  threatened, 
they  went  away,  exalting  our  bravery  and  the  goodness 
of  "  Pale  Flower,"  which  name  they  had  given  Lillian. 

That  day  ended,  however,  with  a  sad  event,  which  cast 
a  shade  on  our  delight  at  such  a  considerable  victory* 
and  its  foreseen  results.  Among  my  men  there  were 
none  killed ;  a  number,  nevertheless,  had  received  wounds 
more  or  less  serious ;  the  most  grievously  wounded  was 
Henry  Simpson,  whose  eagerness  had  borne  him  away  dur- 
ing battle.  In  the  evening  his  condition  grew  so  much 
worse,  that  he  was  dying ;  he  wished,  poor  fellow,  to 
make  a  confession  to  me,  but  could  not  speak,  for  his 
jaw  had  been  broken  by  a  tomahawk.  He  merely  mut- 
tered, "  Pardon,  my  captain  ! "  Convulsions  seized  him 
immediately.  I  divined  what  he  wanted,  remembering  the 
bullet  which  had  whistled  at  my  ear  in  the  morning,  and 
I  forgave  him,  as  becomes  a  Christian.  I  knew  that  he 
carried  with  him  to  the  grave  a  deep,  though  unacknow- 
ledged feeling  for  Lillian,  and  supposed  that  he  might 
have  sought  death. 

He  died  about  midnight;  we  buried  him  under  an 
immense  cottonwood,  on  the  bark  of  which  I  carved  out 
a  cross  with  my  knife. 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  375 


CHAPTER  V. 

ON  the  following  day  we  moved  on.  Before  us  was  a 
prairie  still  more  extensive,  more  level,  wilder,  a  region 
which  the  foot  of  a  white  man  had  hardly  touched  at 
that  period,  —  in  a  word,  we  were  in  Nebraska. 

During  the  first  days  we  moved  quickly  enough  over 
treeless  expanses,  but  not  without  difficulty,  for  there 
was  an  utter  lack  of  wood  for  fuel.  The  banks  of  the 
Platte  Eiver,  which  cuts  the  whole  length  of  those 
measureless  plains,  were,  it  is  true,  covered  with  a  dense 
growth  of  osier  and  willow ;  but  that  river  had  over- 
flowed its  shallow  bed,  as  is  usual  in  spring,  and  we  had 
to  keep  far  away  from  it.  Meanwhile  we  passed  the 
nights  at  smouldering  fires  of  buffalo  dung,  which,  not 
dried  yet  sufficiently  by  the  sun,  rather  smouldered  with 
a  blue  flame  than  burnt.  We  hurried  on  then  with  every 
effort  toward  Big  Blue  River,  where  we  could  find  abun- 
dance of  fuel. 

The  country  around  us  bore  every  mark  of  a  primitive 
region.  Time  after  time,  before  the  train,  which  extended 
now  in  a  very  loose  line,  rushed  herds  of  antelopes  with 
ruddy  hair  and  with  white  under  the  belly  ;  at  times  there 
appeared  in  the  waves  of  grass  the  immense  shaggy  heads 
of  buffaloes,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  steaming  nostrils  ; 
then  again  these  beasts  were  seen  in  crowds,  like  black, 
moving  patches  on  the  distant  prairie. 

In  places  we  passed  near  whole  towns  formed  of 
mounds  raised  by  prairie  dogs.  The  Indians  did  not 
show  themselves  at  first,  and  only  a  number  of  days 
later  did  we  see  three  wild  horsemen,  ornamented  with 
feathers ;  but  they  vanished  before  our  eyes  in  an  instant, 


376  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

like  phantoms.  I  convinced  myself  afterward  that  the 
bloody  lesson  which  I  had  given  them  on  the  Missouri, 
made  the  name  of  "  Big  Ara  "  (for  thus  they  had  modified 
Big  Ralph)  terrible  among  the  many  tribes  of  prairie 
robbers  ;  the  kindness  shown  the  prisoners  had  captivated 
those  people,  wild  and  revengeful,  though  not  devoid  of 
knightly  feeling. 

When  we  had  come  to  Big  Blue  River,  I  resolved  to 
halt  ten  days  at  its  woody  banks.  The  second  half  of 
the  road,  which  lay  before  us,  was  more  difficult  than  the 
first,  for  beyond  the  prairie  were  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
and  farther  on  the  "  Bad  Lands  "  of  Utah  and  Nevada. 
Meanwhile,  our  mules  and  horses,  in  spite  of  abundant 
pasture,  had  become  lean  and  road-weary  ;  hence  it  was 
needful  to  recruit  their  strength  with  a  considerable  rest. 
For  this  purpose  we  halted  in  the  triangle  formed  by  the 
Big  Blue  River  and  Beaver  Creek. 

It  was  a  strong  position,  which,  secured  on  two  sides  by 
the  rivers  and  on  the  third  by  the  wagons,  had  become 
almost  impregnable,  especially  since  wood  and  water  were 
found  on  the  spot.  Of  camp  labor  there  was  scarcely 
any,  excessive  watching  was  not  needed,  and  the  emi- 
grants could  use  their  leisure  with  perfect  freedom.  The 
days,  too,  were  the  most  beautiful  of  our  journey.  The 
weather  continued  to  be  marvellous,  and  the  nights  grew 
so  warm  that  one  might  sleep  in  the  open  air. 

The  people  went  out  in  the  morning  to  hunt,  and  returned 
at  midday,  weighed  down  with  antelopes  and  prairie  birds, 
which  lived  in  millions  in  the  country  about ;  the  rest  of 
the  day  they  spent  eating,  sleeping,  singing,  or  shooting 
for  amusement  at  wild  geese,  which  flew  above  our  camp 
in  whole  flocks. 

In  my  life  there  has  never  been  anything  better  or 
happier  than  those  ten  days  between  the  rivers.  From 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  377 

morning  till  evening  I  did  not  part  from  Lillian,  and  that 
beginning  not  of  passing  visits,  but,  as  it  were,  of  life, 
convinced  me  more  and  more  that  I  had  loved  once 
and  forever  her,  the  mild  and  gentle.  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  Lillian  in  those  days  more  nearly  and  more 
deeply.  At  night,  instead  of  sleeping,  I  thought  fre- 
quently of  what  she  was,  and  that  she  had  become  to  rne 
as  dear  and  as  needful  in  life  as  the  air  is  for  breathing. 
God  sees  that  I  loved  greatly  her  beautiful  face,  her 
long  tresses,  and  her  eyes,  —  as  blue  as  that  sky  bending 
over  Nebraska,  —  and  her  form,  lithe  and  slender,  which 
seemed  to  say,  "Support  and  defend  me  forever  ;  without 
thee  I  cannot  help  myself  in  the  world !  "  God  sees 
that  I  loved  everything  that  was  in  her,  every  poor 
bit  of  clothing  of  hers,  and  she  attracted  me  with  such 
force  that  I  could  not  resist ;  but  there  was  another 
charm  in  her  for  me,  and  that  was  her  sweetness  and 
sensitiveness. 

Many  women  have  I  met  in  my  life,  but  never  have 
I  met  and  never  shall  I  meet  another  such,  and  I  feel 
endless  grief  when  I  think  of  her.  The  soul  in  Lillian 
Morris  was  as  sensitive  as  that  flower  whose  leaves  nestle 
in  when  you  draw  near  it.  Sensitive  to  every  word  of 
mine,  she  comprehended  everything  and  reflected  every 
thought,  just  as  deep,  transparent  water  reflects  all  that 
passes  by  the  brink  of  it.  At  the  same  time  that  pure 
heart  yielded  itself  to  feeling  with  such  timidity  that  I 
felt  how  great  her  love  must  be  when  she  weakened  and 
gave  herself  in  sacrifice.  And  then  everything  honorable 
in  my  soul  was  changed  into  one  feeling  of  gratitude  to 
her.  She  was  simply  my  one,  my  dearest  in  the  world ; 
so  modest,  that  I  had  to  persuade  her  that  to  love  is  not 
a  sin,  and  I  was  breaking  my  head  continually  over  this : 
how  can  I  persuade  her  ?  In  such  emotions  time  passed 


378  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

for  us  at  the  meeting  of  the  rivers,  till  at  last  my  supreme 
happiness  was  accomplished. 

One  morning  at  daybreak  we  started  to  walk  up 
Beaver  Creek ;  I  wanted  to  show  her  the  beavers ;  a  whole 
kingdom  of  them  was  flourishing  not  farther  than  half  a 
mile  from  our  wagons.  Walking  along  the  bank  care- 
fully, near  the  bushes,  we  came  soon  to  our  object.  There 
was  a  little  bay  as  it  were,  or  a  lakelet,  formed  by  the 
creek,  at  the  brink  of  which  stood  two  great  hickory- 
trees  ;  at  the  very  bank  grew  weeping-willows,  half  their 
branches  in  the  water.  The  beaver-dam,  a  little  higher 
up  in  the  creek,  stopped  its  flow,  and  kept  the  water  ever 
at  one  height  in  the  lakelet,  above  whose  clear  surface 
rose  the  round  cupola-shaped  houses  of  these  very  clever 
animals. 

Probably  the  foot  of  man  had  never  stood  before  in 
that  retreat,  hidden  by  trees  on  all  sides.  Pushing  apart 
the  slender  limbs  of  the  willows  cautiously,  we  looked  at 
the  water,  which  was  as  smooth  as  a  mirror,  and  blue. 
The  beavers  were  not  at  their  work  yet ;  the  little  water- 
town  slumbered  in  visible  quiet ;  and  such  silence  reigned 
on  the  lake  that  I  heard  Lillian's  breath  when  she  thrust 
her  golden  head  through  the  opening  in  the  branches 
with  mine,  and  our  temples  touched.  I  caught  her  waist 
with  my  arm  to  hold  her  on  the  slope  of  the  bank  and 
we  waited  patiently,  delighted  with  what  our  eyes  were 
taking  in  at  that  moment. 

Accustomed  to  life  in.wild  places,  I  loved  Nature  as 
my  own  mother,  though  simply  ;  but  I  felt  that  some- 
thing like  God's  delight  in  Creation  was  present. 

It  was  early  morning ;  the  light  had  barely  come,  and 
was  reddening  among  the  branches  of  the  hickories  ;  the 
dew  was  dropping  from  the  leaves  of  the  willows,  and 
the  world  was  growing  brighter  each  instant.  Later  on. 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  379 

there  came  to  the  other  shore  prairie  chickens,  gray, 
with  black  throats,  pretty  crests  on  their  heads,  and  they 
drank  water,  raising  their  bills  as  they  swallowed. 

"  Ah,  Ealph  !  how  good  it  is  here,"  whispered  Lillian. 

There  was  nothing  in  my  head  then  but  a  cottage  in 
some  lonely  canyon,  she  with  me,  and  such  a  rosary  of 
peaceful  days,  flowing  calmly  into  eternity  and  endless 
rest.  It  seemed  to  us  that  we  had  brought  to  that  wed- 
ding of  Nature  our  own  wedding,  to  that  calm  our  calm, 
and  to  that  bright  light  the  bright  light  of  happiness 
within  us. 

Now  the  smooth  surface  described  itself  in  a  circle,  and 
from  the  water  came  up  slowly  the  bearded  face  of  a 
beaver,  wet  and  rosy  from  the  gleam  of  the  morning;  then 
a  second,  arid  the  two  little  beasts  swam  toward  the  lake, 
pushing  apart  with  their  noses  blue  lines,  puffing  and 
muttering.  They  climbed  the  dam,  and,  sitting  on  their 
haunches,  began  to  call ;  at  that  signal  heads,  larger  and 
smaller,  rose  up  as  if  by  enchantment;  a  plashing  was 
heard  in  the  lake.  The  herd  appeared  at  first  to  be  play- 
ing,—  simply  diving  and  screaming  from  delight  in  its 
own  fashion ;  but  the  first  pair,  looking  from  the  dam, 
gave  a  sudden,  prolonged  whistle  from  their  nostrils, 
and  in  a  twinkle  half  of  the  beavers  were  on  the 
dam,  and  the  other  half  had  swum  to  the  banks  and 
vanished  under  the  willows,  where  the  water  began  to 
boil,  and  a  sound  as  it  were  of  sawing  indicated  that 
the  little  beasts  were  working  there,  cutting  bark  and 
branches. 

Lillian  and  I  looked  long,  very  long,  at  these  acts,  and 
at  those  pleasures  of  animal  life  until  we  disturbed  it. 
Wishing  to  change  her  position,  she  moved  a  branch 
accidentally,  and  in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  every  beaver 
had  vanished ;  only  the  disturbed  water  indicated  that 


380  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

something  was  beneath ;  but  after  a  while  the  water 
became  smooth,  and  silence  surrounded  us  again,  inter- 
rupted only  by  the  woodpeckers  striking  the  firm  bark 
of  the  hickories. 

The  sun  had  risen  above  the  trees  and  began  to  heat 
powerfully.  Since  Lillian  did  not  feel  tired  yet,  we 
resolved  to  go  around  the  little  lake.  On  the  way  we 
came  to  a  small  stream  which  intersected  the  wood 
and  fell  into  the  lake  from  the  opposite  side.  Lillian 
could  not  cross  it,  so  I  had  to  carry  her ;  and  despite  her 
resistance,  I  took  her  like  a  child  in  my  arms  and  walked 
into  the  water.  But  that  stream  was  a  stream  of  temp- 
tations. Fear  lest  I  should  fall  made  her  seize  my  neck 
with  both  arms,  hold  to  me  with  all  her  strength,  and 
hide  her  shamed  face  behind  my  shoulder ;  but  I  began 
straightway  to  press  my  lips  to  her  temple,  whispering, 
"  Lillian !  my  Lillian  ! "  And  in  that  way  I  carried 
her  over  the  water. 

When  I  reached  the  other  bank  I  wished  to  carry 
her  farther,  but  she  tore  herself  from  me  almost  rudely. 
A  certain  disquiet  seized  both  of  us ;  she  began  to  look 
around  as  if  in  fear,  and  now  pallor  and  now  ruddi- 
ness struck  her  face.  We  went  on.  I  took  her  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  my  heart.  At  moments  fear  of  myself 
seized  me.  The  day  became  sultry ;  heat  flowed  down 
from  the  sky  to  the  earth ;  the  wind  was  not  blowing, 
the  leaves  on  the  hickories  hung  motionless ;  the  only 
sound  was  from  woodpeckers  striking  the  bark  as  before ; 
all  seemed  to  be  growing  languid  from  heat  and  falling 
asleep.  I  thought  that  some  enchantment  was  in  the 
air,  in  that  forest,  and  then  I  thought  only  that  Lillian 
was  with  me  and  that  we  were  alone. 

Meanwhile  weariness  began  to  come  on.  Lillian ;  her 
breathing  grew  shorter  and  more  audible,  and  on  her 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  381 

face,  usually  pale,  fiery  blushes  beat  forth.  I  asked  if 
she  was  not  tired,  and  if  she  would  not  rest. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  answered  she  quickly,  as  if  defending 
herself  from  even  the  thought ;  but  after  a  few  tens  of 
steps  she  tottered  suddenly  and  whispered,— 

"  I  cannot,  indeed,  I  cannot  go  farther." 

Then  I  took  her  again  in  my  arms  and  carried  that 
dear  burden  to  the  edge  of  the  shore,  where  willows, 
hanging  to  the  ground,  formed  a  shady  corridor.  In 
this  green  alcove  I  placed  her  on  the  moss.  I  knelt 
down ;  and  when  I  looked  at  her  the  heart  in  me  was 
straitened.  Her  face  was  as  pale  as  linen,  and  her  star- 
ing eyes  looked  with  fear  at  me. 

"  Lillian,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  cried  I.  "  I  am  with 
you."  I  bent  to  her  feet  then  and  covered  them  with 
kisses.  "  Lillian  !  "  continued  I,  "  my  only,  my  chosen, 
my  wife  ! " 

When  I  said  these  last  words  a  shiver  passed  through 
her  from  head  to  foot ;  and  suddenly  she  threw  her 
arms  around  my  neck  with  a  certain  unusual  power,  as 
in  a  fever,  repeating,  "  My  dear !  my  dear !  my  hus- 
band ! "  Everything  vanished  from  my  eyes  then,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  whole  globe  of  the  earth  was 
flying  away  with  us. 

I  know  not  to  this  day  how  it  could  be  that  when  I 
recovered  from  that  intoxication  and  came  to  my  senses 
twilight  was  shining  again  among  the  dark  branches  of 
the  hickories,  but  it  was  the  twilight  of  evening.  The 
woodpeckers  had  ceased  to  strike  the  trees ;  one  twilight 
on  the  bottom  of  the  lake  was  smiling  at  that  other 
which  was  in  the  sky ;  the  inhabitants  of  the  water  had 
gone  to  sleep ;  the  evening  was  beautiful,  calm,  filled 
with  a  red  light ;  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  camp. 

When  we  had  come  out  from  beneath   the  weeping- 


382  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

willows,  I  looked  at  Lillian  ;  there  was  not  on  her  face 
either  sadness  or  disquiet ;  in  her  upturned  eyes  was  the 
light  of  calm  resignation  and,  as  it  were,  a  bright  aure- 
ole of  sacrifice  and  dignity  encircled  her  blessed  head. 
When  I  gave  her  my  hand,  she  inclined  her  face  quietly 
to  my  shoulder,  and,  without  turning  her  eyes  from  the 
heavens,  she  said  to  me,  — 

"  Ealph,  repeat  to  me  that  I  am  your  wife,  and  repeat 
it  often." 

Since  there  was  neither  in  the  deserts,  nor  in  the  place 
to  which  we  were  going,  any  marriage  save  that  of 
hearts,  I  knelt  down,  and  when  she  had  knelt  at  my 
side,  I  said,  "  Before  God,  earth,  and  heaven,  I  declare 
to  thee,  Lillian  Morris,  that  I  take  thee  as  wife.  Amen." 

To  this  she  answered,  "  Now  I  am  thine  forever  and 
till  death,  thy  wife,  Kalph  !  " 

From  that  moment  we  were  married  ;  she  was  not  my 
sweetheart,  she  was  my  lawful  wife.  That  thought  was 
pleasant  to  both  of  us,  —  and  pleasant  to  me,  for  in  my 
heart  there  rose  a  new  feeling  of  a  certain  sacred  respect 
for  Lillian,  and  for  myself,  a  certain  honorableness  and 
great  dignity  through  which  love  became  ennobled  and 
blessed.  Hand  in  hand,  with  heads  erect  and  confident 
look,  we  returned  to  the  camp,  where  the  people  were 
greatly  alarmed  about  us.  A  number  of  tens  of  men 
had  gone  out  in  every  direction  to  search  for  us  ;  and  with 
astonishment  I  learned  afterward  that  some  had  passed 
around  the  lake,  but  could  not  discover  us  ;  we  on  our 
part  had  not  heard  their  shouts. 

I  summoned  the  people,  and  when  they  had  assembled 
in  a  circle,  I  took  Lillian  by  the  hand,  went  into  the 
centre  of  the  circle,  and  said, — 

"  Gentlemen,  be  witnesses,  that  in  your  presence  I  call 
this  woman,  who  stands  with  me,  my  wife ;  and  bear 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  383 

witness  of  this  before  justice,  before  law,  and  before 
every  one  whosoever  may  ask  you,  either  in  the  East  or 
the  West." 

"  We  will !  and  hurrah  for  you  both  !  "  answered  the 
miners. 

Old  Smith  asked  Lillian  then,  according  to  custom,  if 
she  agreed  to  take  me  as  husband,  and  when  she  said 
"  Yes,"  we  were  legally  married  before  the  people. 

In  the  distant  prairies  of  the  West,  and  on  all  the 
frontiers  where  there  are  no  towns,  magistrates,  or 
churches,  marriages  are  not  performed  otherwise ;  and 
to  this  hour,  if  a  man  calls  a  woman  with  whom  he 
lives  under  the  same  roof  his  wife,  this  declaration 
takes  the  place  of  all  legal  documents.  No  one  of  my 
men  therefore  wondered,  or  looked  at  my  marriage  other- 
wise than  with  the  respect  shown  to  custom  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, all  were  rejoiced,  for,  though  I  had  held  them 
more  sternly  than  other  leaders,  they  knew  that  I  did  so 
honestly,  and  with  each  day  they  showed  me  more  good- 
will, and  my  wife  was  always  the  eye  in  the  head  of  the 
caravan.  Hence  there  began  a  holiday  and  amusements. 
The  fires  were  stirred  up;  the  Scots  took  from  their 
wagons  the  pipes,  whose  music  we  both  liked,  since  it 
was  for  us  a  pleasant  reminiscence  ;  the  Americans  took 
out  their  favorite  ox-bones,  and  amid  songs,  shouts,  and 
shooting,  the  wedding  evening  passed  for  us. 

Aunt  Atkins  embraced  Lillian  every  little  while,  now 
laughing,  now  weeping,  now  lighting  her  pipe,  which 
went  out  the  next  moment.  But  I  was  touched  most  by 
the  following  ceremony  which  is  a  custom  in  that  mov- 
able portion  of  the  American  population  which  spends 
the  greater  part  of  its  life  in  wagons.  When  the  moon 
went  down  the  men  fastened  on  the  ramrods  of  their 
guns  branches  of  lighted  osier,  and  a  whole  procession, 


384  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

under  the  lead  of  old  Smith,  conducted  us  from  wagon  to 
wagon,  asking  Lillian  at  each  of  them,  "  Is  this  your 
home  ? "  My  beautiful  love  answered,  "  No  ! "  and  we 
went  on.  At  Aunt  Atkins'  wagon  a  real  tenderness  took 
possession  of  us  all,  for  in  that  one  Lillian  had  ridden 
hitherto.  When  she  said  there  also  in  a  low  voice,  "  No," 
Aunt  Atkins  bellowed  like  a  buffalo,  and  seizing  Lillian 
in  her  embrace,  began  to  repeat,  "  My  little  one  !  my 
sweet ! "  sobbing  meanwhile,  and  carried  away  with 
weeping.  Lillian  sobbed  too;  and  then  all  those  hard- 
ened hearts  grew  tender  for  an  instant,  and  there  was  no 
eye  to  which  tears  did  not  come. 

When  we  approached  it,  I  barely  recognized  my  wagon ; 
it  was  decked  with  branches  and  flowers.  Here  the  men 
raised  the  burning  torches  aloft,  and  Smith  inquired  in  a 
louder  and  more  solemn  voice,  — 

"  Is  this  your  home  ? " 

"  It  is,  it  is  !  "  answered  Lillian. 

Then  all  uncovered  their  heads,  and  there  was  such 
silence  that  I  heard  the  hissing  of  the  fire  and  the  sound 
of  the  burnt  twigs  falling  on  the  ground  ;  the  old  white- 
haired  miner,  stretching  out  his  sinewy  hands  over  us, 
said,  — 

"  May  God  bless  you  both,  and  your  house,  Amen  ! " 

A  triple  hurrah  answered  that  blessing.  All  separated 
then,  leaving  me  and  my  loved  one  alone. 

When  the  last  man  had  gone,  she  rested  her  head  on 
my  breast,  whispering,  "  Forever !'  forever  !"  and  at  that 
moment  the  stars  in  our  souls  outnumbered  the  stars  of 
the  sky. 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  '385 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

NEXT  morning  early  I  left  my  wife  sleeping  and  went 
to  find  flowers  for  her.  While  looking  for  them,  I 
said  to  myself  every  moment,  " You  are  married!"  and 
the  thought  filled  me  with  such  delight,  that  I  raised 
my  eyes  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  thanking  Him  for  having 
permitted  me  to  live  to  the  time  in  which  a  man  becomes 
himself  genuinely  and  rounds  out  his  life  with  the  life 
of  another  loved  beyond  everything.  I  had  something 
now  of  my  own  in  the  world,  and  though  that  canvas- 
covered  wagon  was  my  only  house  and  hearth,  I  felt 
richer  at  once,  and  looked  at  my  previous  wandering  lot 
with  pity,  and  with  wonder  that  I  could  have  lived  in 
that  manner  hitherto.  Formerly  it  had  not  even  come  to 
my  head  what  happiness  there  is  in  that  word  "  wife,"  — 
happiness  which  called  to  my  heart's  blood  with  that 
name,  and  to  the  best  part  of  my  own  soul.  For  a  long 
time  I  had  so  loved  Lillian  that  I  saw  the  whole  world 
through  her  alone,  connected  everything  with  her,  and 
understood  everything  only  as  it  related  to  her.  And 
now  when  I  said  "  wife,"  that  meant,  mine,  mine  forever ; 
and  I  thought  that  I  should  go  wild  with  delight,  for  it 
could  not  find  place  in  my  head,  that  I,  a  poor  man, 
should  possess  such  a  treasure.  What  then  was  lacking 
to  me  ?  Nothing.  Had  those  prairies  been  warmer,  had 
there  been  safety  there  for  her,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
obligation  to  lead  people  to  the  place  to  which  I  had 
promised  to  lead  them,  I  was  ready  not  to  go  to  Cali- 
fornia, but  to  settle  even  in  Nebraska,  if  with  Lillian.  I 
had  been  going  to  California  to  dig  gold,  but  now  I  was 
ready  to  laugh  at  the  idea.  "  What  other  riches  can  I 

25 


386,  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

find  there,  when  I  have  her  ? "  I  asked  myself.  "  What 
do  we  care  for  gold  ?  See,  I  will  choose  some  canyon, 
where  there  is  spring  all  the  year ;  I  will  cut  down  trees 
for  a  house,  and  live  with  her,  and  a  plough  and  a  gun 
will  give  us  life.  We  shall  not  die  of  hunger  —  These 
were  my  thoughts  while  gathering  flowers,  and  when  I 
had  enough  of  them  I  returned  to  the  camp.  On  the 
road  I  met  Aunt  Atkins. 

"  Is  the  little  one  sleeping  ? "  asked  she,  taking  the 
inseparable  pipe  from  her  mouth  for  a  moment. 

"She  is  sleeping,"  answered  I. 

To  this  Aunt  Atkins,  blinking  with  one  eye,  added,  — 

"  Ah,  you  rascal ! " 

Meanwhile  the  "  little  one  "  was  not  sleeping,  for  we 
both  saw  her  coming  down  from  the  wagon,  and  shield- 
ing her  eyes  with  her  hand  against  the  sunlight,  she 
began  to  look  on  every  side.  Seeing  me,  she  ran  up  all 
rosy  and  fresh,  as  the  morning.  When  I  opened  my 
arms,  she  fell  into  them  panting,  and  putting  up  her 
mouth,  began  to  repeat, — 

"  Dzien  dobry  !  dzien  dobry  !  dzien  dobry  !  " 

Then  she  stood  on  her  toes,  and  looking  into  my  eyes, 
asked  with  a  roguish  smile,  "Am  I  your  wife  ?" 

What  was  there  to  answer,  except  to  kiss  without  end 
and  fondle  ?  And  thus  passed  the  whole  time  at  that 
meeting  of  rivers,  for  old  Smith  had  taken  on  himself  all 
my  duties  till  the  resumption  of  our  journey. 

We  visited  our  beavers  once  more,  and  the  stream, 
through  which  I  carried  her  now  without  resistance. 
Once  we  went  up  Blue  Eiver  in  a  little  redwood  canoe. 
At  a  bend  of  the  stream  I  showed  Lillian  buffaloes  near 
by,  driving  their  horns  into  the  bank,  from  which  their 
whole  heads  were  covered  as  if  with  armor  of  dried  clay. 
But  two  days  before  starting,  these  expeditions  ceased, 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  387 

for  first  the  Indians  had  appeared  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  second  my  dear  lady  had  begun  to  be  weak  somewhat. 
She  grew  pale  and  lost  strength,  and  when  I  inquired  what 
the  trouble  was,  she  answered  only  with  a  smile  and  the 
assurance  that  it  was  nothing.  I  watched  over  her  sleep, 
I  nursed  her  as  well  as  I  was  able,  almost  preventing  the 
breezes  from  blowing  on  her,  and  grew  thin  from  anxiety. 
Aunt  Atkins  blinked  mysteriously  with  her  left  eye  when 
talking  of  Lillian's  illness,  and  sent  forth  such  dense  rolls 
of  smoke  that  she  grew  invisible  behind  them.  I  was 
disturbed  all  the  more,  because  sad  thoughts  came  to 
Lillian  at  times.  She  had  beaten  it  into  her  head  that 
maybe  it  was  not  permitted  to  love  so  intensely  as  we 
were  loving,  and  once,  putting  her  finger  on  the  Bible, 
which  we  read  every  day,  she  said  sadly,  — 

"  Eead,  Ealph." 

I  looked,  and  a  certain  wonderful  feeling  seized  my 
heart  too,  when  I  read,  "  Who  changed  the  truth  of  God 
into  a  lie,  and  worshipped  and  served  the  creature  more 
than  the  Creator,  who  is  blessed  forever."  She  said  when 
I  had  finished  reading,  "  But  if  God  is  angry  at  this,  I 
know  that  with  His  goodness  He  will  punish  only  me." 

I  pacified  her  by  saying  that  love  was  simply  an  angel, 
who  flies  from  the  souls  of  two  people  to  God  and  takes 
Him  praise  from  the  earth.  After  that  there  was  no 
talk  between  us  touching  such  things,  since  preparations 
for  the  journey  had  begun.  The  fitting  up  of  wagons 
and  beasts,  and  a  thousand  occupations,  stole  my  time 
from  me.  When  at  last  the  hour  came  for  departure  we 
took  tearful  farewell  of  that  river  fork,  which  had  wit- 
nessed so  much  of  our  happiness;  but  when  I  saw  the 
train  stretching  out  again  on  the  prairie,  the  wagons  one 
after  another  and  lines  of  mules  before  the  wagons,  I  felt 
a  certain  consolation  at  the  thought  that  the  end  of  the 


388  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

journey  would  be  nearer  each  day,  that  a  few  months 
more  and  we  should  see  California,  toward  which  we 
were  striving  with  such  toil. 

But  the  first  days  of  the  journey  did  not  pass  over- 
successfully.  Beyond  the  Missouri,  as  far  as  the  foot  of 
the  Eocky  Mountains,  the  prairie  rises  continually  over 
enormous  expanses ;  therefore  the  beasts  were  easily 
wearied,  and  were  often  tired  out.  Besides,  we  could  not 
approach  the  Platte  Eiver,  for,  though  the  flood  had 
decreased,  it  was  the  time  of  the  great  spring  hunts,  and 
a  multitude  of  Indians  circled  around  the  river,  looking 
for  herds  of  buffaloes  then  moving  northward.  Night 
service  became  difficult  and  wearying;  no  night  passed 
without  alarms. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  we  had  moved  from  the  river 
fork,  I  broke  up  a  considerable  party  of  Indian  plunderers 
at  the  moment  when  they  were  trying  to  stampede  our 
mules.  But  worst  of  all  were  the  nights  without  fire. 
We  were  unable  to  approach  the  Platte  Eiver,  and  fre- 
quently had  nothing  to  burn,  and  toward  morning  driz- 
zling rain  fell ;  buffalo  dung,  which  in  case  of  need  took 
the  place  of  wood,  got  wet,  and  would  not  burn. 

The  buffaloes  filled  me  with  alarm  also.  Sometimes 
we  saw  berds  of  some  thousands  on  the  horizon,  rushing 
forward  like  a  storm,  crushing  everything  before  them. 
Were  such  a  herd  to  strike  the  train,  we  should  perish 
every  one  without  rescue.  To  complete  the  evil,  the 
prairie  was  swarming  at  that  time  with  beasts  of  prey  of 
all  species;  after  the  buffaloes  and  Indians,  came  terrible 
gray  bears,  cougars,  big  wolves  from  Kansas  and  the 
Indian  Territory.  At  the  small  streams,  where  we 
stopped  for  the  night  sometimes,  we  saw  at  sunset  whole 
menageries  coming  to  drink  after  the  heat  of  the  day. 
Once  a  bear  rushed  at  Wichita,  our  half-breed ;  and  if  I 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  389 

had  not  run  up,  with  Smith  and  the  other  scout,  Tom,  to 
help  him,  he  would  have  been  torn  to  pieces.  I  opened 
the  head  of  the  monster  with  an  axe,  which  I  brought 
down  with  such  force  that  the  handle  of  tough  hickory 
was  broken ;  still,  the  beast  rushed  at  me  once  more,  and 
fell  only  when  Smith  and  Tom  shot  him  in  the  ear  from 
rifles.  Those  savage  brutes  were  so  bold  that  at  night 
they  came  up  to  the  very  train;  and  in  the  course  of  a  week 
we  killed  two  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
wagons.  In  consequence  of  this,  the  dogs  raised  such  an 
uproar  from  twilight  till  dawn  that  to  close  an  eye  was 
impossible. 

Once  I  loved  such  a  life ;  and  when,  a  year  before,  I 
was  in  Arkansas,  during  the  greatest  heat,  it  was  for  me 
as  in  paradise.  But  now,  when  I  remembered  that  in 
the  wagon  my  beloved  wife,  instead  of  sleeping,  was 
trembling  about  me,  and  ruining  her  health  with  anxiety, 
I  wished  all  the  Indians  and  bears  and  cougars  in  the 
lowest  pit,  and  desired  from  my  soul  to  secure  as  soon 
as  possible  the  peace  of  that  being  so  fragile,  so  delicate, 
and  so  worshipped,  that  I  wished  to  bear  her  forever  in 
my  arms. 

A  great  weight  fell  from  my  heart  when,  after  three 
weeks  of  such  crossings,  I  saw  at  last  the  waters  of  a 
river  white  as  if  traced  out  with  chalk ;  this  stream  is 
called  now  Republican  River,  but  at  that  time  it  had  no 
name  in  English.  Broad  belts  of  dark  willows,  stretch- 
ing like,  a  mourning  trail  along  the  white  waters,  could 
afford  us  fuel  in  plenty ;  and  though  that  kind  of  willow 
crackles  in  the  fire,  and  shoots  sparks  with  great  noise, 
still  it  burns  better  than  wet  buffalo  dung. .  I  appointed 
at  this  place  another  rest  of  two  days,  because  the  rocks, 
scattered  here  and  there  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  indi- 
cated the  proximity  of  a  hilly  country,  difficult  to  cross, 


390  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

lying  on  both  sides  of  tlie  back  of 'the  Eocky  Mountains. 
We  were  already  on  a  considerable  elevation  above  the 
sea,  as  could  be  known  by  the  cold  nights. 

That  inequality  between  day  and  night  temperature 
troubled  us  greatly.  Some  people,  among  others  old 
Smith,  fell  ill  of  fever,  and  had  to  go  to  their  wagons. 
The  seeds  of  the  disease  had  clung  to  them,  probably,  at 
the  unwholesome  banks  of  the  Missouri,  and  hardship 
caused  the  outbreak.  The  nearness  of  the  mountains, 
however,  gave  hope  of  a  speedy  recovery  ;  meanwhile, 
my  wife  nursed  them  with  a  devotion  innate  to  gentle 
hearts  only. 

But  she  grew  thin  herself.  More  than  once,  when  I 
woke  in  the  morning,  my  first  look  fell  on  her  beautiful 
fabe,  and  my  heart  beat  uneasily  at  its  pallor  and  the 
blue  half-circles  under  her  eyes.  It  would  happen  that 
while  I  was  looking  at  her  in  that  way  she  would  wake, 
smile  at  me,  and  fall  asleep  again.  Then  I  felt  that  I 
would  have  given  half  my  health  of  oak  if  we  were  in 
California ;  but  California  was  still  far,  far  away. 

After  two  days  we  started  again,  and  coming  to  the 
Republican  River  at  noon,  were  soon  moving  along  the 
fork  of  the  White  Man  toward  the  southern  fork  of 
the  Platte,  lying  for  the  most  part  in  Colorado.  The 
country  became  more  mountainous  at  every  step,  and  we 
were  really  in  the  canyon  along  the  banks  of  which  rose 
up  in  the  distance  higher  and  higher  granite  cliffs,  now 
standing  alone,  now  stretching  out  continuously  like 
walls,  now  closing  more  narrowly,  now  opening  out  on 
both  sides.  Wood  was  not  lacking,  for  all  the  cracks 
and  crannies  of  the  cliffs  were  covered  with  dwarf  pine 
and  dwarf  oak  as  well.  Here  and  there  springs  were 
heard ;  along  the  rocky  walls  scampered  wolverines. 
The  air  was  cool,  pure,  wholesome.  After  a  week  the 


ACROSS   THE   PLAINS.  391 

fever  ceased.  But  the  mules  and  horses,  forced  to  eat 
food  in  which  heather  predominated,  instead  of  the  juicy 
grass  of  Nebraska,  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  groaned 
more  loudly  as  they  pulled  our  well  filled  and  weighty 
wagons  up  the  mountains. 

At  last  on  a  certain  afternoon  we  saw  before  us  beacons, 
as  it  were,  or  crested  clouds  half  melting  in  the  distance, 
hazy,  blue,  azure,  with  white  and  gold  on  their  crests, 
and  immense  in  size,  extending  from  the  earth  to  the 
sky. 

At  this  sight  a  shout  rose  in  the  whole  caravan ; 
men  climbed  to  the  tops  of  the  wagons  to  see  better, 
from  every  side  thundered  shouts,  "  Kocky  Mountains ! 
Kocky  Mountains  ! "  Caps  were  waving  in  the  air,  and 
on  all  faces  enthusiasm  was  evident. 

Thus  the  Americans  greeted  their  Eocky  Mountains ; 
but  I  went  to  my  wagon,  and,  pressing  my  wife  to  my 
breast,  vowed  faith  to  her  once  more  in  spirit  before 
those  heaven-touching  altars,  which  expressed  such  sol- 
emn mysteriousness,  majesty,  unapproachableness,  and 
immensity.  The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  soon  twilight 
covered  the  whole  country;  but  those  giants  in  the 
last  rays  seemed  like  measureless  masses  of  burning 
coal  and  lava.  Later  on,  that  fiery  redness  passed 
into  violet,  ever  darker,  and  at  last  all  disappeared, 
and  was  merged  into  one  darkness,  through  which  gazed 
at  us  from  above  the  stars,  the  twinkling  eyes  of  the 
night. 

But  we  were  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  yet 
from  the  main  chain ;  in  fact,  the  mountains  disappeared 
from  our  eyes  next  day,  intercepted  by  cliffs  ;  again  they 
appeared  and  again  they  vanished,  as  our  road  went  by 
turns. 

We  advanced  slowly,  for  new  obstacles  stood  in  our 


392  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

way ;  and  though  we  kept  as  much  as  possible  to  the 
bed  of  the  river,  frequently,  where  the  banks  were  too 
steep,  we  had  to  go  around  and  seek  a  passage  by  neigh- 
boring valleys.  The  ground  in  these  valleys  was  covered 
with  gray  heather  and  wild  peas,  not  good  for  mules  even, 
and  forming  no  little  hindrance  to  the  journey,  for  the 
long  and  powerful  stems,  twisting  around  the  wagon 
wheels,  made  the  turning  of  them  difficult. 

Sometimes  we  came  upon  openings  and  cracks  in  the 
earth,  impassable  and  hundreds  of  yards  long ;  these  we 
had  to  go  around  also.  Time  after  time  the  scouts, 
Wichita  and  Tom,  returned  with  accounts  of  new  ob- 
stacles. The  land  was  bristling  with  rocks,  or  it  broke 
away  suddenly. 

On  a  certain  day  it  seemed  to  us  that  we  were  going 
through  a  valley,  when  all  at  once  the  valley  was  miss- 
ing ;  in  place  of  it  was  a  precipice  so  deep  that  the  gaze 
went  down  with  terror  along  a  perpendicular  wall,  and 
the  head  became  dizzy.  Giant  oaks,  growing  at  the 
bottom  of  the  abyss,  seemed  little  black  clumps,  and  the 
buffaloes  pasturing  among  them  like  beetles.  We  entered 
more  and  more  into  the  region  of  precipices,  of  stones, 
fragments,  debris,  and  rocks  thrown  one  on  the  other 
with  a  kind  of  wild  disorder.  The  echo  sent  back  twice 
and  thrice  from  granite  arches  the  curses  of  drivers  and 
squealing  of  mules.  On  the  prairie  our  wagons,  rising 
high  above  the  surface  of  the  country,  seemed  lordly 
and  immense ;  here  before  those  perpendicular  cliffs,  the 
wagons  became  wonderfully  small  to  the  eye,  and  van- 
ished in  those  gorges  as  if  devoured  by  gigantic  jaws. 
Little  waterfalls,  or  as  they  are  called  by  the  Indians, 
"  laughing  waters,"  stopped  the  road  to  us  every  few  hun- 
dred yards ;  toil  exhausted  our  strength  and  that  of  the 
animals.  Meanwhile,  when  at  times  the  real  chain  of 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  393 

mountains  appeared  on  the  horizon,  it  seemed  as  far 
away  and  hazy  as  ever.  Happily  curiosity  overcame  in 
us  even  weariness,  and  the  continual  change  of  views 
kept  it  in  practice.  None  of  my  people,  not  excepting 
those  born  in  the  Alleghauies,  had  ever  seen  such  wild 
regions ;  I  myself  gazed  with  wonder  on  those  canyons, 
along  the  edges  of  which  the  unbridled  fancy  of  Nature 
had  reared  as  it  were  castles,  fortresses,  and  stone  cities. 
From  time  to  time  we  met  Indians,  but  these  were 
different  from  those  on  the  prairies,  very  straggling  and 
very  much  wilder. 

The  sight  of  white  men  roused  in  them  fear  mingled 
with  a  thirst  for  blood.  They  seemed  still  more  cruel 
than  their  brethren  in  Nebraska ;  their  stature  was 
loftier,  their  complexion  much  darker,  their  wide  nostrils 
and  quick  glances  gave  them  the  expression  of  wild 
beasts  caught  in  a  trap.  Their  movements,  too,  had 
almost  the  quickness  and  timidity  of  beasts.  While 
speaking,  they  put  their  thumbs  to  their  cheeks,  which 
were  painted  in  white  and  blue  stripes.  Their  weapons 
were  tomahawks  and  bows,  the  latter  made  of  a  certain 
kind  of  firm  mountain  hawthorn,  so  rigid  that  my  men 
could  not  bend  them.  These  savages,  who  in  considerable 
numbers  might  have  been  very  dangerous,  were  distin- 
guished by  invincible  thievishness ;  happily  they  were 
few,  the  largest  party  that  we  met  not  exceeding  fifteen. 
They  called  themselves  Tabeguachis,  Winemucas,  and 
Yampas.  Our  scout,  Wichita,  though  expert  in  Indian 
dialects,  could  not  understand  their  language ;  hence  we 
could  not  make  out  in  any  way  why  all  of  them,  pointing 
to  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  then  to  us,  closed  and 
opened  their  palms,  as  if  indicating  some  number. 

The  road  became  so  difficult,  that  with  the  greatest 
exertion,  we  made  barely  fifteen  miles  a  day.  At  the 


394  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

same  time  our  horses  began  to  die,  being  less  enduring 
than  mules  and  more  choice  of  food ;  men  failed  in 
strength  too,  for  during  whole  days  they  had  to  draw 
wagons  with  the  mules,  or  to  hold  them  in  dangerous 
places.  By  degrees  unwillingness  seized  the  weakest; 
some  got  the  rheumatism,  and  one,  through  whose  mouth 
blood  came  because  of  exertion,  died  in  three  days,  cursing 
the  hour  in  which  it  came  to  his  head  to  leave  New  York. 
We  were  then  in  the  worst  part  of  the  road,  near  the 
little  river  called  by  the  Indians  Kiowa.  There  were  no 
cliffs  there  as  high  as  on  the  Eastern  boundary  of 
Colorado ;  but  the  whole  country,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  was  bristling  with  fragments  thrown  in  disorder 
one  upon  another.  These  fragments,  some  standing  up- 
right, others  overturned,  presented  the  appearance  of 
ruined  graveyards  with  fallen  headstones.  Those  were 
really  the  "  Bad  Lands  "  of  Colorado,  answering  to  those 
which  extended  northward  over  Nebraska.  With  the 
greatest  effort  we  escaped  from  them  in  the  course  of  a 
week. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 

AT  last  we  found  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  the   Rocky 
Mountains. 

Fear  seized  me  when  I  looked  from  a  proximate  point 
at  that  world  of  granite  mountains,  whose  sides  were 
wrapped  in  mist,  and  whose  summits  were  lost  some- 
where in  eternal  snow  and  clouds.  Their  size  and  silent 
majesty  pressed  me  to  the  earth  ;  hence  I  bent  before  the 
Lord,  imploring  Him  to  permit  me  to  lead,  past  those 
measureless  walls,  my  wagons,  my  people,  and  my  wife. 
After  such  a  prayer  I  entered  the  stone  gorges  and  cor- 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  395 

ridors  with  more  confidence.  When  they  closed  behind 
us  we  were  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Above 
was  the  sky  ;  in  it  a  few  eagles  were  screaming,  around 
us  was  granite  and  then  granite  without  end,  —  a  genuine 
labyrinth  of  passages,  vaults,  ravines,  openings,  precipices, 
towers,  silent  edifices,  and  as  it  were  chambers,  gigantic 
and  dreamy.  There  is  such  a  solemnity  there,  and  the 
soul  is  under  such  pressure,  that  a  man  knows  not  him- 
self why  he  whispers  instead  of  speaking  aloud.  It 
seems  to  him  that  the  road  is  closing  before  him  con- 
tinually, that  some  voice  is  saying  to  him,  "  Go  no 
farther,  for  there  is  no  passage  ! "  It  seems  to  him  that 
he  is  attacking  some  secret  on  which  God  Himself  has 
set  a  seal.  At  night,  when  those  upright  legions  were 
standing  as  black  as  mourning,  and  the  moon  cast  about 
their  summits  a  silvery  mantle  of  sadness,  when  certain 
wonderful  shadows  rose  around  the  "  laughing  waters," 
a  quiver  passed  through  the  most  hardened  adventurers. 
We  spent  whole  hours  by  the  fires,  looking  with  a 
certain  superstitious  awe  at  the  dark  depths  of  the 
ravines,  lighted  by  ruddy  gleams ;  we  seemed  to  think 
that  something  terrible  might  show  itself  any  moment. 

Once  we  found  under  a  hollow  in  the  cliff  the  skeleton 
of  a  man  ;  and  though  from  the  remnant  of  the  hair  which 
had  dried  to  the  skull,  we  saw  that  he  was  an  Indian, 
still  an  ominous  feeling  pressed  our  hearts,  for  that 
skeleton  with  grinning  teeth  seemed  to  forewarn  us  that 
whoso  wandered  in  there  would  never  come  out  again. 

That  same  day  the  half-breed,  Tom,  was  killed  sud- 
denly, having  fallen  with  his  horse  from  the  edge  of  a 
precipice.  A  gloomy  sadness  seized  the  whole  caravan  ; 
formerly  we  had  advanced  noisily  and  joyfully,  now  the 
drivers  ceased  to  swear,  and  the  caravan  pushed  forward 
in  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  squeaking  of  wheels. 


396  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

The  mules  grew  ill-tempered  more  frequently,  and  when 
one  pair  stood  as  still  as  if  lashed  to  the  earth,  all 
the  wagons  behind  had  to  halt.  I  was  most  tortured 
by  this, — that  in  those  moments  which  were  so  diffi- 
cult and  oppressive,  and  in  which  my  wife  needed  my 
presence  more  than  at  other  times,  I  could  not  be  neai 
her ;  for  I  had  to  double  and  treble  myself  almost,  so  as 
to  give  an  example,  uphold  courage  and  confidence.  The 
men,  it  is  true,  bore  toil  with  the  endurance  innate  with 
Americans,  though  they  were  simply  using  the  last  of 
their  strength.  But  my  health  was  proof  against  every 
hardship.  There  were  nights  in  which  I  did  not  have 
two  hours  of  sleep ;  I  dragged  the  wagons  with  others, 
I  posted  the  sentries,  I  went  around  the  square,  —  in  a 
word,  I  performed  service  twice  more  burdensome  than 
any  one  of  the  company ;  but  it  is  evident  that  happiness 
gave  me  strength.  For  when,  wearied  and  beaten  down, 
I  came  to  my  wagon,  I  found  there  everything  that  I  held 
dearest :  a  faithful  heart  and  a  beloved  hand,  that  wiped 
my  wearied  forehead.  Lillian,  though  suffering  a  little, 
never  went  to  sleep  wittingly  before  niy  arrival ;  and 
when  I  reproached  her  she  closed  my  mouth  with  a  kiss 
and  a  prayer  not  to  be  angry.  When  I  told  her  to  sleep 
she  did  so,  while  holding  my  hand.  Frequently  in  the 
night,  when  she  woke,  she  covered  me  with  beaver  skins, 
so  that  I  might  rest  better.  Always  mild,  sweet,  loving, 
she  cared  for  me  and  brought  me  to  worship  her  simply. 
I  kissed  the  hem  of  her  garment,  as  if  it  had  been  a  thing 
the  most  sacred,  and  that  wagon  of  ours  became  for 
me  almost  a  church.  That  little  one  in  presence  of  those 
heaven-touching  walls  of  granite,  upon  which  she  cast 
her  upraised  eyes,  covered  them  for  me  in  such  a  way, 
that  in  presence  of  her  they  vanished  from  before  me, 
and  amid  all  those  immensities  I  saw  only  her.  What 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS.  397 

is  there  wonderful,  if  when  strength  failed  others,  T  had 
strength  still,  and  felt  that  so  long  as  it  was  a  question 
of  her  I  should  never  fail  ? 

After  three  weeks'  journey  we  came  at  last  to  a  more 
spacious  canyon  formed  by  White  River.  At  the  entrance 
to  it  the  Winta  Indians  prepared  an  ambush  which 
annoyed  us  somewhat ;  but  when  their  reddish  arrows 
began  to  reach  the  roof  of  my  wife's  wagon,  I  struck  on 
them  with  my  men  so  violently  that  they  scattered  at 
once.  We  killed  three  or  four  of  them.  The  only  prisoner 
whom  we  took,  a  youth  of  sixteen,  when  he  had  recovered 
a  little  from  terror,  pointed  in  turn  at  us  and  to  the 
West,  repeating  gestures  similar  to  those  made  by  the 
Yampa.  It  seemed  to  us  that  he  wanted  to  say  that  there 
were  white  men  near  by,  but  it  was  difficult  to  give  credit 
to  that  supposition.  In  time  it  turned  out  correct,  and 
it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  astonishment  and  delight  of 
my  men  on  the  following  day,  when,  descending  from  an 
elevated  plateau,  we  saw  on  a  broad  valley  which  lay  at 
our  feet,  not  only  wagons,  but  houses  built  of  freshly- 
cut  logs.  These  houses  formed  a  circle,  in  the  centre  of 
which  rose  a  large  shed  without  windows  ;  through  the 
middle  of  the  plain  a  stream  flowed ;  near  it  were  herds 
of  mules,  guarded  by  men  on  horseback. 

The  presence  of  men  of  my  own  race  in  that  valley 
rilled  me  with  astonishment,  which  soon  passed  into  fear, 
when  I  remembered  that  they  might  be  "  criminal  out- 
laws" hiding  in  the  desert  from  death.  I  knew  from 
experience  that  such  outcasts  push  frequently  to  very 
remote  and  entirely  desert  regions,  where  they  form 
detachments,  on  a  complete  military  footing.  Some- 
times they  are  founders  of  new  societies  as  it  were, 
which  at  first  live  by  plundering  people  moving  to  more 
inhabited  places ;  but  later,  by  a  continual  increase  of 


398  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

population,  they  change  by  degrees  into  ordered  soci- 
eties. I  met  more  than  once  with  "  outlaws "  on  the 
upper  course  of  the  Mississippi,  when,  as  a  squatter,  I 
floated  down  logs  to  New  Orleans ;  more  than  once  I 
had  bloody  adventures  with  them,  hence  their  cruelty 
and  bravery  were  equally  well  known  to  me. 

I  should  not  have  feared  them  had  not  Lillian  been 
with  us ;  but  at  thought  of  the  danger  in  which  she 
would  be  if  we  were  defeated  and  I  fell,  the  hair  rose 
on  my  head,  and  for  the  first  time  in  life  I  was  as 
full  of  fear  as  the  greatest  coward.  But  I  was  con- 
vinced that  if  those  men  were  outlaws,  we  could  not 
avoid  battle  in  any  way,  and  that  the  conflict  would  be 
more  difficult  with  them  than  with  Indians. 

I  warned  my  men  at  once  of  the  probable  danger,  and 
arranged  them  in  order  of  battle.  I  was  ready  either  to 
perish  myself,  or  destroy  that  nest  of  wasps,  and  resolved 
to  strike  the  first  blow. 

Meanwhile  they  saw  us  from  the  valley,  and  two 
horsemen  started  toward  us  as  fast  as  their  horses 
could  gallop.  I  drew  breath  at  that  sight,  for  "out- 
laws "  would  not  send  messengers  to  meet  us.  Tn  fact, 
it  turned  out  that  they  were  riflemen  of  the  American 
Fur  Company,  who  had  their  "summer  camp"  in  that 
valley.  Instead  of  a  battle,  therefore,  a  most  hospitable 
reception  was  waiting  for  us,  and  every  assistance  from 
those  rough  but  honest  riflemen  of  the  desert.  Indeed, 
they  received  us  with  open  arms,  and  we  thanked  God 
for  having  looked  on  our  misery  and  prepared  so  agree- 
able a  resting-place. 

A  month  and  a  half  had  passed  since  our  departure 
from  Big  Blue  Eiver.  Our  strength  was  exhausted,  our 
mules  were  half  alive  merely ;  but  here  we  might  rest  a 
whole  week  in  perfect  safety,  with  abundance  of  food 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  399 

for  ourselves,  and  grass  for  our  animals.  For  us  that 
was  simply  salvation. 

Mr.  Thorston,  the  chief  of  the  camp,  was  an  educated 
man  and  enlightened.  Knowing  that  I  was  not  a  com- 
mon rough  fellow  of  the  prairies,  he  became  friendly  at 
once,  and  gave  his  own  cottage  to  me  and  Lillian,  whose 
health  had  suffered  greatly. 

I  kept  her  two  days  in  bed.  She  was  so  wearied 
that  she  barely  opened  her  eyes  for  the  first  twenty- 
four  hours ;  during  that  time  I  took  care  that  noth- 
ing disturbed  her.  I  sat  at  her  bedside  and  watched 
hour  after  hour.  In  two  days  she  was  strengthened 
enough  to  go  out;  but  I  did  not  let  her  touch  any 
labor.  My  men,  too,  slept  for  the  first  few  days  like 
stones,  wherever  each  one  dropped  down.  Only  after 
they  had  slept  did  we  repair  our  wagons  and  clothing 
and  wash  our  linen.  The  honest  riflemen  helped  us 
in  everything  earnestly.  They  were  Canadians,  for  the 
greater  part,  who  had  hired  with  the  company.  They 
spent  the  winter  in  trapping  beavers,  killing  skunks 
and  minks ;  in  summer  they  betook  themselves  to  so- 
called  "summer  camps,"  in  which  there  were  tempo- 
rary storehouses  of  furs.  The  skins,  dressed  there  in 
some  fashion,  were  convoyed  to  the  East.  The  service  of 
those  people,  who  hired  for  a  number  of  years,  was  ardu- 
ous beyond  calculation ;  they  had  to  go  to  very  remote 
and  wild  places,  where  all  kinds  of  animals  existed  in 
plenty,  and  where  they  themselves  lived  in  continual 
danger  and  in  endless  warfare  with  redskins.  It  is  true 
that  they  received  high  wages ;  most  of  them  did  not 
serve  for  mere  money,  but  from  love  of  life  in  the  wil- 
derness, and  adventures,  of  which  there  was  no  lack 
at  any  time.  Men,  too,  of  great  strength  and  health 
had  been  chosen,  men  capable  of  enduring  all  hard- 


400  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

ships.  Their  great  stature,  fur  caps,  and  long  rifles 
reminded  Lillian  of  Cooper's  novels;  hence  she  looked 
with  curiosity  on  the  whole  camp  and  on  all  the  ar- 
rangements. Their  discipline  was  as  absolute  as  that 
of  a  knightly  order.  Thorston,  the  chief  agent  of  the 
company,  and  at  the  same  time  their  employer,  main- 
tained complete  military  authority.  Withal  they  were 
very  honest  people,  hence  time  passed  for  us  among 
them  with  perfect  comfort ;  our  camp,  too,  pleased  them 
greatly,  and  they  said  that  they  had  never  met  such  a 
disciplined  and  well-ordered  caravan.  Thorston,  in  pres- 
ence of  all,  praised  my  plan  of  taking  the  northern  route 
instead  of  that  by  St.  Louis  and  Kansas.  He  told  us 
that  on  that  trail  a  caravan  of  three  hundred  people, 
under  a  certain  Marchwood,  after  numerous  sufferings 
caused  by  heat  and  locusts,  had  lost  all  their  draught- 
beasts,  and  were  cut  to  pieces  at  last  by  the  Arapahoe 
Indians.  The  Canadian  riflemen  had  learned  this  from 
the  Arapahoes  themselves,  whom  they  had  beaten  in  a 
great  battle,  and  from  whom  they  had  captured  more 
than  a  hundred  scalps,  among  others  that  of  March- 
wood  himself. 

This  information  had  great  influence  on  my  people, 
so  that  old  Smith,  a  veteran  pathfinder,  who  from  the 
beginning  was  opposed  to  the  route  through  Nebraska, 
declared  in  presence  of  all  that  I  was  smarter  than  he, 
and  that  it  was  his  part  to  learn  of  me.  During  our 
stay  in  the  hospitable  summer  camp  we  regained  our 
strength  thoroughly.  Besides  Thorston,  with  whom  I 
formed  a  lasting  friendship,  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Mick,  famous  throughout  all  the  States.  This  man 
was  not  of  the  camp,  but  had  wandered  through  the 
deserts  with  two  other  famous  explorers,  Lincoln  and 
Kit  Carson.  Those  three  remarkable  men  carried  on 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  401 

real  wars  with  whole  tribes  of  Indians ;  their  skill  and 
superhuman  courage  always  secured  them  the  victory. 
The  name  of  Mick,  of  whom  more  than  one  book  is 
written,  was  so  terrible  to  the  Indians,  that  with  them 
his  word  had  more  weight  than  a  United  States  treaty. 
The  Government  had  often  employed  him  as  an  inter- 
mediary, and  finally  appointed  him  Governor  of  Oregon. 
When  I  made  his  acquaintance  he  was  nearly  fifty 
years  old ;  but  his  hair  was  as  black  as  the  feather 
of  a  raven,  and  in  his  glance  was  mingled  kindness 
of  heart  with  strength  and  irrestrainable  daring.  He 
passed  also  for  the  strongest  man  in  America,  and  when 
we  wrestled  I  was  the  first,  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  all,  whom  he  failed  to  throw.  This  man  with  a 
great  heart  loved  Lillian  immensely,  and  blessed  her, 
as  often  as  he  visited  us.  In  parting  he  gave  her  a 
pair  of  beautiful  little  moccasins  made  by  himself  from 
the  skin  of  a  doe.  That  present  was  very  timely,  for 
my  poor  wife  had  not  a  pair  of  sound  shoes. 

At  last  we  resumed  our  journey,  with  good  omens, 
furnished  with  minute  directions  what  canyons  to  take 
on  the  way,  and  with  supplies  of  salt  game.  That  was 
not  all.  The  kind  Thorston  had  taken  the  worst  of  our 
mules  and  in  place  of  them  given  us  his  own,  which 
were  strong  and  well  rested.  Mick,  who  had  been  in 
California,  told  real  wonders  not  only  of  its  wealth,  but 
of  its  mild  climate,  its  beautiful  oak  forests,  and  moun- 
tain canyons,  unequalled  in  the  United  States.  A  great 
consolation  entered  our  hearts,  for  we  did  not  know  of 
the  trials  which  awaited  us  before  entering  that  land 
of  promise. 

In  driving  away,  we  waved  our  caps  long  in  farewell 
to  the  honest  Canadians.  As  to  me,  that  day  of  part- 
ing is  graven  in  my  heart  for  the  ages,  since  in  the 

26 


402  ACROSS  THE  PLAINS. 

forenoon  that  beloved  star  of  my  life,  putting  both 
arms  around  my  neck,  began,  all  red  with  embarras- 
ment  and  emotion,  to  whisper  something  in  my  ear. 
When  I  heard  it  I  bent  to  her  feet,  and,  weeping  with 
great  excitement,  kissed  her  knees. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

Two  weeks  after  leaving  the  summer  camp,  we  came 
out  on  the  boundary  of  Utah,  and  our  journey,  as  be- 
fore, though  not  without  labors,  advanced  more  briskly 
than  at  the  beginning.  We  had  yet  to  pass  the  western 
part  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  forming  a  whole  network 
of  branches  called  the  Wasatch  Range.  Two  considerable 
streams,  Green  and  Grand  Rivers,  whose  union  forms  the 
immense  Colorado,  and  numerous  tributaries  of  those  two 
rivers,  cut  the  mountains  in  every  direction,  opening  in 
them  passages  which  are  easy  enough.  By  these  passages 
we  reached  after  a  certain  time  Utah  Lake,  where  the  salt 
lands  begin.  A  wonderful  country  surrounded  us,  monot- 
onous, gloomy  ;  great  level  valleys  encircled  by  cliffs  with 
blunt  outlines,  —  these,  always  alike,  succeed  one  another, 
with  oppressive  monotony.  There  is  in  those  deserts  and 
cliffs  a  certain  sternness,  nakedness,  and  torpor,  so  that  at 

sight  of  them  the  Biblical  deserts  recur  to  one's  mind.    The 
° 

lakes  here  are  brackish,  their  shores  fruitless  and  barren. 
There  are  no  trees ;  the  ground  over  an  enormous  expanse 
exudes  salt  and  potash,  or  is  covered  by  a  gray  vegetation 
with  large  felt-like  leaves,  which,  when  broken,  give  forth 
a  salt,  clammy  sap.  That  journey  is  wearisome  and 
oppressive,  for  whole  weeks  pass,  and  the  desert  stretches 
on  without  end,  and  opens  into  plains  of  eternal  same- 
ness, though  they  are  rocky.  Our  strength  began  to  give 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  403 

way  again.     On  the  prairies  we  were  surrounded  by  the 
monotony  of  life,  here  by  the  monotony  of  death. 

A  certain  oppression  and  indifference  to  everything 
took  gradual  possession  of  the  people.  We  passed  Utah, 

—  always  the  same  lifeless  lands !     We  entered  Nevada, 

—  no  change !     The  sun  burnt  so  fiercely  that  our  heads 
were  bursting  from  pain ;  the  light,  reflecting  from  a  sur- 
face covered  with  salt,  dazzled  the  eye;  in  the  air  was 
floating  a  kind  of  dust,  coming  it  was  unknown  whence, 
which   inflamed  our  eyelids.     The  draught-beasts,  time 
after  time,  seized  the  earth  with  their  teeth,  and  dropped 
from  sunstroke,  as  if  felled  by  lightning.     The  majority 
of  the  people  kept  themselves  up  only  with  the  thought 
that  in  a  week  or  two  weeks  the  Sierra  Nevada  would 
appear   on   the   horizon,   and   behind    that   the   desired 
California. 

Meanwhile,  days  passed  and  weeks  in  ever-increasing 
labors.  In  the  course  of  a  certain  week  we  were  forced 
to  leave  three  wagons  behind,  for  there  were  no  animals 
to  draw  them. 

Oh,  that  was  a  land  of  misfortune  and  misery !  In 
Nevada  the  desert  became  deeper,  and  our  condition  still 
worse,  for  disease  fell  upon  us. 

One  morning  people  came  to  inform  me  that  Smith 
was  sick.  I  went  to  see  what  his  trouble  was,  and  saw 
with  amazement  that  typhus  had  overthrown  the  old 
miner.  So  many  climates  are  not  changed  with  impunity ; 
severe  labor,  in  spite  of  short  rests,  makes  itself  felt,  and 
the  germs  of  disease  are  developed  from  hardship  and 
toil.  Lillian,  whom  Smith  loved  as  if  she  had  been  his 
own  daughter,  and  whom  he  blessed  on  the  day  of  our 
marriage,  insisted  on  nursing  him.  I,  weak  man,  trembled 
iii  my  whole  soul  for  her,  but  I  could  not  forbid  her  to  be 
a  Christian.  She  sat  over  the  sick  man  whole  days  and 


404  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

nights,  together  with  Aunt  Atkins  and  Aunt  Grosvenor, 
who  followed  her  example,  On  the  second  day,  however, 
the  old  man  lost  consciousness,  and  on  the  eighth-  he  died 
in  Lillian's  arms.  I  buried  him,  shedding  ardent  tears 
over  the  remains  of  him  who  had  been  not  only  my 
assistant  and  right  hand  in  everything,  but  a  real  father 
to  me  and  to  Lillian.  We  hoped  that  after  such  a  sac- 
rifice God  would  take  pity  on  us ;  but  that  was  merely 
the  beginning  of  our  trials,  for  that  very  day  another 
miner  fell  ill,  and  almost  every  day  after  that  some 
one  lay  down  in  a  wagon,  and  left  it  only  when  borne 
to  a  grave. 

And  thus  we  dragged  along  over  the  desert,  and  after 
us  followed  the  pestilence,  grasping  new  victims  continu- 
ally. In  her  turn  Aunt  Atkins  fell  ill,  but,  thanks  to 
Lillian's  efforts,  her  sickness  was  conquered.  The  soul 
was  dying  in  me  every  instant,  and  more  than  once,  when 
Lillian  was  with  the  sick,  and  I  somewhere  on  guard  in 
front  of  the  camp,  alone  in  the  darkness,  I  pressed  my 
temples  with  my  hands  and  knelt  down  in  prayer  to  God. 
Obedient  as  a  dog,  I  was  whining  for  mercy  on  her  with- 
out daring  to  say,  "  Let  Thy  will  and  not  mine  be  done." 
Sometimes  in  the  night,  when  we  were  alone,  I  woke  sud- 
denly, for  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  pestilence  was  pushing 
the  canvas  of  my  wagon  aside  and  staring  in,  looking  for 
Lillian.  All  the  intervals  when  I  was  not  with  her,  and 
they  formed  most  of  the  time,  were  for  me  changed  into 
one  torture,  under  which  I  bent  as  a  tree  bends  before  a 
whirlwind.  Lillian,  however,  had  been  equal  to  all  toils 
and  efforts  so  far.  Though  the  strongest  men  fell,  I  saw 
her  emaciated  it  is  true,  pale,  and  with  marks  of  mater- 
nity increasingly  definite  on  her  forehead,  but  in  health, 
and  going  from  wagon  to  wagon.  I  dared  not  even  ask 
if  she  were  well ;  I  only  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and 


ACROSS   THE  PLAINS.  405 

pressed  her  long  and  long  to  my  breast,  and  even  had  I 
wished  to  speak,  something  so  oppressed  me,  that  I  could 
not  have  uttered  a  word. 

Gradually,  however,  hope  began  to  enter  me,  and  in  my 
head  were  sounding  no  longer  those  terrible  words  of  the 
Bible,  "  Who  worshipped  and  served  the  creature  more 
than  the  Creator." 

We  were  nearing  the  western  part  of  Nevada,  where, 
beyond  the  belt  of  dead  lakes,  the  salt  lands  and  desert 
rocks  find  an  end,  and  a  belt  of  prairie  begins,  more 
level,  greener,  and  very  fertile.  During  two  days'  jour- 
ney no  one  fell  ill ;  I  thought  that  our  misery  was  over. 
And  it  was  high  time ! 

Nine  men  had  died,  six  were  ailing  yet;  under  the 
fear  of  infection  discipline  had  begun  to  relax ;  nearly  all 
the  horses  were  dead,  and  the  mules  seemed  rather  skele- 
tons than  beasts.  Of  the  fifty  wagons  with  which  we 
had  moved  out  of  the  summer  camp,  only  thirty-two 
were  dragging  now  over  the  desert.  Besides,  since  no 
one  wished  to  go  hunting  lest  he  might  fall  somewhere 
away  from  the  caravan  and  be  left  without  aid,  our 
supplies,  not  being  replenished,  were  coming  to  an  end. 
Wishing  to  spare  them,  we  had  lived  for  a  week  past  on 
black  ground  squirrels ;  but  their  malodorous  meat  had 
so  disgusted  us  that  we  put  it  to  our  mouths  with  loath- 
ing, and  even  that  wretched  food  was  not  found  in 
sufficiency.  Beyond  the  lakes,  however,  game  became 
more  frequent,  and  grass  was  abundant.  Again  we  met 
Indians,  who,  in  opposition  to  their  custom,  attacked  us 
in  daylight  and  on  the  open  plain ;  having  firearms,  they 
killed  four  of  our  people.  In  the  conflict  I  received  such 
a  severe  wound  in  the  head  from  a  hatchet  that  in  the 
evening  of  that  day  I  lost  consciousness  from  loss  of 
blood ;  but  I  was  happy  since  Lillian  was  nursing  me, 


406  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

and  not  patients  from  whom  she  might  catch  the  typhus. 
Three  days  I  lay  in  the  wagon,  pleasant  days,  since  I 
was  with  her  continually.  I  could  kiss  her  hands  when 
she  was  changing  the  bandages,  and  look  at  her.  On 
the  third  day  I  was  able  to  sit  on  horseback  ;  but  the 
soul  was  weak  in  me,  and  I  feigned  sickness  before  my- 
self so  as  to  be  with  her  longer. 

Only  then  did  I  discover  how  tired  I  had  been,  and 
what  weariness  had  gone  out  of  my  bones  while  I  was 
lying  prostrate.  Before  my  illness  I  had  suffered  not  a 
little  concerning  my  wife.  I  had  grown  as  thin  as  a  skele- 
ton, and  as  formerly  I  had  been  looking  with  fear  and 
alarm  at  her,  so  now  she  was  looking  with  the  same  feel- 
ings at  me.  But  when  my  head  had  ceased  to  fall  from 
shoulder  to  shoulder  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  I  had  to 
mount  the  last  living  horse  and  lead  the  caravan  forward, 
especially  as  certain  alarming  signs  were  surrounding  us 
on  all  sides.  There  was  a  heat  well-nigh  preternatural, 
and  in  the  air  a  dull  haze  as  if  of  smoke  from  a  distant 
burning;  the  horizon  became  dull  and  dark.  It  was 
impossible  to  see  the  sky,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  came 
to  the  earth  red  and  sickly ;  the  draught-beasts  showed  a 
wonderful  disquiet,  and,  breathing  hoarsely,  bared  their 
teeth.  As  to  us,  we  inhaled  fire  with  our  breasts.  The 
heat  was  caused,  as  I  thought,  by  one  of  those  stifling 
winds  from  the  Gila  desert,  of  which  men  had  told  me  in 
the  East ;  but  there  was  stillness  round  about,  and  not  a 
grass  blade  was  stirring  on  the  plain.  In  the  evening 
the  sun  went  down  as  red  as  blood,  and  stifling  nights 
followed.  The  sick  groaned  for  water ;  the  dogs  howled. 
Whole  nights  I  wandered  around  a  number  of  miles  from 
the  camp  to  make  sure  that  the  plains  were  not  burning ; 
but  there  was  no  fire  in  sight  anywhere.  I  calmed  my- 
self finally  with  the  thought  that  the  smoke  must  be 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  407 

from  a  fire  that  had  gone  out  already.  In  the  daytime  I 
noticed  that  hares,  antelopes,  buffaloes,  even  squirrels, 
were  hastening  eastward,  as  if  fleeing  from  that  California 
to  which  we  were  going  with  such  effort.  But  since  the 
air  had  become  a  little  purer  and  the  heat  somewhat  less, 
I  settled  finally  in  the  thought  that  there  had  been  a  fire 
which  had  ceased,  that  the  animals  were  merely  looking 
for  food  in  some  new  place.  It  was  only  needful  for  us 
to  push  up  as  soon  as  possible  to  the  burnt  strip,  and 
learn  whether  the  belt  of  fire  could  be  crossed  or  whether 
we  should  have  to  go  around  it.  According  to  my  calcu- 
lation it  could  not  be  more  than  three  hundred  miles  to 
the -Sierra  Nevada,  or  about  twenty  days'  journey.  I 
resolved,  therefore,  to  reach  it,  even  with  our  last  effort. 

We  travelled  at  night  now,  for  midday  heat  weakened 
the  animals  greatly,  and  among  the  wagons  there  was 
always  some  shade  in  which  they  could  rest. 

One  night,  being  unable  to  remain  on  horseback  be- 
cause of  weariness  and  my  wound,  I  sat  in  the  wagon 
with  Lillian.  I  heard  all  at  once  a  sudden  wheezing  and 
biting  of  the  wheels  striking  on  ground  which  was  pecu- 
liar ;  at  the  same  time  shouts  of  "  Stop  !  stop  ! "  were  heard 
along  the  whole  length  of  the  train.  I  sprang  from  the 
wagon  at  once.  By  the  light  of  the  moon  I  saw  the 
drivers  bent  to  the  earth  and  looking  at  it  ca.refully.  At 
the  same  moment  a  voice  called, — 

"  Ho,  captain,  we  are  travelling  on  coals." 

I  bent  down,  felt  the  earth,  —  we  were  travelling  on  a 
burnt  prairie.  I  stopped  the  caravan  at  once,  and  we 
remained  the  rest  of  the  night  on  that  spot.  With  the 
first  light  of  morning  a  wonderful  sight  struck  our  eyes : 
As  far  as  we  could  see,  there  lay  a  plain  black  as  coal, — 
not  only  were  all  the  bushes  and  the  grass  burnt,  but  the 
earth  was  so  glossy  that  the  feet  of  our  mules  and  the 


408  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

wheels  of  the  wagons  were  reflected  in  it  as  they  might 
have  been  in  a  mirror.  We  could  not  see  clearly  the 
width  of  the  fire,  for  the  horizon  was  still  hazy  from 
smoke ;  but  I  gave  command  without  hesitation  to  turn 
to  the  south,  so  as  to  reach  the  edge  of  that  tract  instead 
of  venturing  on  the  burnt  country.  I  knew  from  experi- 
ence what  it  is  to  travel  on  burnt  prairie  land  where 
there  is  not  a  blade  of  grass  for  draught-beasts.  Since 
evidently  the  fire  had  moved  northward  with  the  wind,  I 
hoped  by  going  toward  the  south  to  reach  the  beginning 
of  it. 

The  people  obeyed  my  order,  it  is  true,  but  rather 
unwillingly,  for  it  involved  God  knows  how  long  a  delay 
in  the  journey.  During  our  halt  at  noon  the  smoke 
became  thinner;  but  if  it  did,  the  heat  grew  so  terrible 
that  the  air  quivered  from  its  fervency,  and  all  at  once 
something  took  place  which  might  seem  a  miracle. 

On  a  sudden  the  haze  and  smoke  parted,  as  if  at  a 
signal,  and  before  our  eyes  rose  the  Sierra  Nevada,  green, 
smiling,  wonderful,  covered  with  gleaming  snow  on  the 
summits,  and  so  near  that  with  the  naked  eye  we  could 
see  the  dents  in  the  mountains,  the  green  lakes,  and  the 
forests.  It  seemed  to  us  that  a  fresh  breeze  filled  with 
odors  from  the  pitchy  fir  was  coming  above  the  burnt 
fields  to  us,  and  that  in  a  few  hours  we  should  reach  the 
flowery  foothills.  At  this  sight  the  people,  worn  out 
with  the  terrible  desert  and  with  labors,  went  almost 
out  of  their  minds  with  delight ;  some  fell  on  the  ground 
sobbing,  others  stretched  forth  their  hands  toward  heaven 
or  burst  into  laughter,  others  grew  pale  without  power 
to  speak.  Lillian  and  I  wept  from  delight  too,  which  in 
me  was  mingled  with  astonishment,  for  I  had  thought 
that  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  at  least  separated  us  yet 
from  California;  but  there  were  the  mountains  smiling 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS.  409 

at  us  across  the  burnt  plain,  and  they  seemed  to  approach 
as  if  by  inagic,  and  bend  toward  us  and  invite  us  and 
lure  us  on. 

The  hours  fixed  for  rest  had  not  passed  yet,  but  the 
people  would  not  hear  of  a  longer  halt.  Even  the  sick 
stretched  out  their  yellow  hands  from  beneath  the  can- 
vas roofs  and  begged  us  to  harness  the  mules  and  drive 
on.  Briskly  and  willingly  we  moved  forward,  and  to  the 
biting  of  the  wheels  on  the  charred  earth  were  joined 
the  cracking  of  whips,  shouts,  and  songs ;  of  driving 
around  the  burnt  tract  there  was  not  a  word  now.  Why 
go  around  when  a  few  tens  of  miles  farther  on  was  Cali- 
fornia and  its  marvellous  snowy  mountains  ?  We  went 
straight  across  toward  them. 

The  smoke  covered  the  bright  view  from  us  again  with 
a  wonderful  suddenness.  Hours  passed;  the  horizon 
came  nearer.  At  last  the  sun  went  down  ;  night  came. 
The  stars  twinkled  dimly  on  the  sky,  but  we  went 
forward  without  rest ;  still  the  mountains  were  evidently 
farther  than  they  had  seemed.  About  midnight  the  mules 
began  to  squeal  and  balk ;  an  hour  later  the  caravan 
stopped,  for  the  greater  number  of  the  beasts  had  lain 
down.  The  men  tried  to  raise  them,  but  there  was  no 
possibility  of  doing  so.  Not  an  eye  closed  all  night. 
At  the  first  rays  of  light  our  glances  flew  eagerly 
into  the  distance  and  —  found  nothing.  A  dark  mourn- 
ing desert  extended  at  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  mono- 
tonous, dull,  defining  itself  with  a  sharp  line  at  the 
horizon  ;  of  yesterday's  mountains  there  was  not  a 
trace. 

The  people  were  amazed.  To  me  the  ominous  word 
"  mirage  "  explained  everything,  but  also  it  went  with  a 
quiver  to  the  marrow  of  my  bones.  What  was  to  be 
done,  —  go  on  ?  But  if  that  burnt  plain  extended  for 


410  ACROSS   THE   PLAINS. 

hundreds  of  miles  ?  Return,  and  then  seek  some  miles 
distant  the  end  of  the  burnt  tract  ?  —  but  had  the  mules 
strength  to  return  over  the  same  road  ?  I  hardly  dared 
to  look  to  the  bottom  of  that  abyss,  on  the  brink  of 
which  we  were  all  standing.  I  wished,  however,  to 
know  what  course  to  take.  I  mounted  my  horse,  moved 
forward,  and  from  a  neighboring  elevation  took  in  with 
my  eye  a  wider  horizon  through  the  aid  of  a  field-glass. 
I  saw  in  the  distance  a  green  strip.  When  I  reached  it, 
however,  after  an  hour's  journey,  the  place  turned  out  to 
be  merely  a  lake,  along  the  bank  of  which  the  fire  had 
not  destroyed  vegetation  completely.  The  burnt  plain  ex- 
tended farther  than  I  could  see  through  the  glass.  There 
was  no  help ;  it  was  necessary  to  turn  back  the  caravan 
and  go  around  the  fire.  For  that  purpose  I  turned  my 
horse.  I  expected  to  find  the  wagons  where  I  had  left 
them,  for  I  had  given  command  to  wait  for  me  there. 
Meanwhile,  disobeying  my  command,  they  had  raised  the 
mules,  and  the  caravan  was  advancing.  To  my  questions 
they  answered  moodily,  "There  are  the  mountains,  we 
will  go  to  them." 

I  did  not  try  even  to  struggle,  for  I  saw  that  there  was 
no  human  power  present  to  stop  those  men.  Perhaps  I 
should  have  gone  back  alone  with  Lillian,  but  my  wagon 
was  not  there,  and  Lillian  had  gone  on  with  Aunt 
Atkins. 

We  advanced.  Night  came  again,  and  with  it  a  forced 
halt.  Out  of  the  burnt  plain  rose  a  great  lurid  moon 
and  lighted  the  distance,  which  was  equally  black.  In 
the  morning  only  half  of  the  wagons  could  be  moved, 
for  the  mules  of  the  others  had  died.  The  heat  of  that 
day  was  dreadful.  The  sun's  rays,  absorbed  by  the 
charred  land,  filled  the  air  with  fire.  On  the  road  one  of 
the  sick  men  expired  in  dreadful  convulsions,  and  no  one 


ACROSS  THE  PLAINS.  411 

undertook  his  burial ;  we  laid  him  down  on  the  plain  and 
went  farther. 

The  water  in  the  lake  at  which  I  had  been  the  day 
before  refreshed  men  and  animals  for  a  time,  but  could 
not  restore  their  strength.  The  mules  had  not  nipped  a 
grass  blade  for  thirty-six  hours,  and  had  lived  only  on 
straw  which  we  took  out  of  the  wagons ;  but  even  that 
failed  them  now.  We  marked  the  road  as  we  went  with 
their  bodies,  and  on  the  third  day  there  was  left  one  only, 
which  I  took  by  force  for  Lillian.  The  wagons  and  the 
tools  in  them,  which  were  to  give  us  bread  in  California, 
remained  in  that  desert,  —  be  it  cursed  for  all  ages  ! 

Every  one  now  except  Lillian  went  on  foot.  Soon  a 
new  enemy  looked  us  in  the  eyes,  —  hunger.  A  part  of 
our  provisions  had  been  left  in  the  wagons ;  that  which 
each  one  could  carry  was  eaten.  There  was  not  a  living 
thing  in  the  country  around  us.  I  alone  in  the  whole 
caravan  had  biscuits  yet  and  a  piece  of  salt  meat;  but 
I  hid  them  for  Lillian,  and  I  was  ready  to  rend  any 
man  to  pieces  who  would  mention  that  food.  I  ate 
nothing  myself,  and  that  terrible  plain  stretched  on 
without  end. 

As  if  to  add  to  our  torments  the  mirage  appeared  in 
the  midday  hours  on  the  plain  again,  showing  us  moun- 
tains and  forests  with  lakes  ;  but  the  nights  were  more 
terrible  than  ever.  All  the  rays  which  that  charred  land 
stole  from  the  sun  in  the  daytime  came  out  at  night, 
scorching  our  feet  and  parching  our  throats.  On  such  a 
night  one  man  lost  his  mind,  and  sitting  on  the  ground 
burst  into  spasmodical  laughter,  and  that  dreadful  laugh- 
ter followed  us  long  in  the  darkness.  The  mule  on 
which  Lillian  was  riding  fell ;  the  famishing  people  tore 
it  to  bits  in  a  twinkle ;  but  what  food  was  that  for  two 
hundred ! 


412  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

The  fourth  day  passed  aiid  the  fifth.  From  hunger, 
the  faces  of  the  people  became  like  those  of  birds  of  some 
kind,  and  they  began  to  look  with  hate  at  one  another. 
They  knew  that  I  had  provisions;  but  they  knew,  too, 
that  to  ask  one  crumb  of  me  was  death,  hence  the  in- 
stinct of  life  overcame  in  them  hunger.  I  gave  food  to 
Lillian  only  at  night,  so  as  not  to  enrage  them  with  the 
sight  of  it.  She  implored  me  by  all  that  was  holy  to  take 
my  share,  but  I  threatened  to  put  a  bullet  in  my  brain  if 
she  even  mentioned  it.  She  was  able,  however,  to  steal 
from  my  watchfulness  crumbs  which  she  gave  to  Aunt 
Atkins  and  Aunt  Grosvenor.  At  that  time  hunger  was 
tearing  my  entrails  with  iron  hand,  and  my  head  was 
burning  from  the  wound. 

For  five  days  there  had  been  nothing  in  my  mouth  but 
water  from  that  lake.  The  thought  that  I  was  carrying 
bread  and  meat,  that  I  had  them  with  me,  that  I  could 
eat,  became  a  torture ;  I  was  afraid  besides,  that  being 
wounded,  I  might  go  mad  and  seize  the  food. 

"  0  Lord ! "  cried  I  in  spirit,  "  suffer  me  not  to  be- 
come so  far  brutalized  as  to  touch  that  which  is  to  keep 
her  in  life!"  But  there  was  no  mercy  above  me. 
On  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  I  saw  on  Lillian's 
face  fiery  spots ;  her  hands  were  inflamed,  she  panted 
loudly.  All  at  once  she  looked  at  me  wanderingly,  and 
said  in  haste,  hurrying  lest  she  might  lose  presence  of 
mind,  — 

"  Ralph,  leave  me  here ;  save  yourself,  there  is  no  hope 
for  me." 

I  gritted  my  teeth,  for  I  wanted  to  howl  and  blas- 
pheme ;  but  saying  nothing  I  took  her  by  the  hands. 
Fiery  zigzags  began  to  leap  before  my  eyes  in  the  air, 
and  to  form  the  words,  "  Who  worshipped  and  served 
the  creature  more  than  the  Creator  ? "  I  had  broken  like 


ACROSS  THE   PLAINS.  413 

a  bow  too  much  bent;  so,  staring  at  the  merciless 
heavens,  I  exclaimed  with  my  whole  soul  in  rebellion  : 

"I!" 

Meanwhile  I  was  bearing  to  the  mount  of  execution 
my  dearest  burden,  this  my  only  one,  my  saint,  my  be- 
loved martyr. 

I  know  not  where  I  found  strength ;  I  was  insensible 
to  hunger,  to  heat,  to  suffering.  I  saw  nothing  before 
me,  neither  people  nor  the  burning  plain  ;  I  saw  nothing 
but  Lillian.  That  night  she  grew  worse.  She  lost 
consciousness ;  at  times  she  groaned  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"  Kalph,  water ! "  And  oh,  torments  !  I  had  only  salt 
meat  and  dry  biscuits.  In  supreme  despair  I  cut  my  arm 
with  a  knife  to  moisten  her  lips  with  my  blood ;  she 
grew  conscious,  cried  out,  and  fell  into  a  protracted  faint, 
from  which  I  thought  she  would  not  recover.  When  she 
came  to  herself  she  wished  to  say  something,  but  the 
fever  had  blunted  her  mind,  and  she  only  murmured, — 

"Kalph,  be  not  angry  !     I  am  your  wife." 

I  carried  her  farther  in  silence.  I  had  grown  stupid 
from  pain. 

The  seventh  day  came.  The  Sierra  Nevada  appeared 
at  last  on  the  horizon,  and  as  the  sun  was  going  down  the 
life  of  my  life  began  to  quench  also.  When  she  was 
dying  I  placed  her  on  the  burnt  ground  and  knelt  beside 
her.  Her  widely  opened  eyes  were  gleaming  and  fixed 
on  me ;  thought  appeared  in  them  for  a  moment,  and  she 
whispered,  — 

"  My  dear,  my  husband ! "  Then  a  quiver  ran  through 
her,  fear  was  on  her  face,  —  and  she  died. 

I  tore  the  bandages  from  my  head,  and  lost  conscious- 
ness. I  have  no  memory  of  what  happened  after  that. 
As  in  a  kind  of  dream  I  remember  people  who  surrounded 
me  and  took  my  weapons ;  then  they  dug  a  grave,  as  it 


414  ACROSS   THE  PLAINS. 

were ;  and,  still  later,  darkness  and  raving  seized  me,  and 
in  them  the  fiery  words,  "Who  worshipped  and  served 
the  creature  more  than  the  Creator !  " 

I  woke  a  month  later  in  California  at  the  house  of 
Moshynski,  a  settler.  When  I  had  come  to  health  some- 
what I  set  out  for  Nevada ;  the  prairie  had  grown  over 
with  grass,  and  was  abundantly  green,  so  that  I  could 
not  find  even  her  grave,  and  to  this  day  I  know  not 
where  her  sacred  remains  are.  What  have  I  done,  0 
God,  that  Thou  didst  turn  Thy  face  from  me  and  forget 
me  in  the  desert  ?  —  I  know  not.  Were  it  permitted  me 
to  weep  even  one  hour  at  her  grave,  life  would  be  easier. 
Every  year  I  go  to  Nevada,  and  every  year  I  seek  in 
vain.  Since  those  dreadful  hours  long  years  have  passed. 
My  wretched  lips  have  uttered  more  than  once,  Let  Thy 
will  be  done  !  But  without  her  it  is  hard  for  me  in  the 
world.  A  man  lives  and  walks  among  people,  and  laughs 
even  at  times ;  but  the  lonely  old  heart  weeps  and  loves, 
and  yearns  and  remembers. 

I  am  old,  and  it  is  not  long  till  I  shall  make  another 
journey,  the  journey  to  eternity ;  and  for  one  thing  alone 
I  ask  God,  —  that  on  those  celestial  plains  I  may  find  my 
heavenly  one,  and  not  part  from  her  ever  again. 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF   A  TUTOR 
IN  POZNAIST. 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR 
IN  POZNAN. 

THE  lamp,  though  shaded,  roused  me,  and  more  than 
once  I  saw  Mihas  still  working  at  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  His  small,  fragile  figure,  dressed 
only  in  sleeping  clothes,  was  bent  over  a  book  ;  and  in 
the  stillness  of  the  night  his  drowsy  and  wearied  voice 
repeated  Latin  and  Greek  conjugations  mechanically,  and 
in  that  humdrum  voice  with  which  people  at  church 
respond  to  a  litany.  When  I  called  him  to  go  to  bed  the 
boy  would  answer :  "  I  don't  know  my  lessons  yet,  Pan 
Vavrykevich."  I  worked  out  his  lessons  however  from 
four  till  eight,  and  then  from  nine  till  twelve  o'clock,  and 
did  not  go  to  bed  myself  till  I  was  convinced  that  he  had 
learned  everything ;  but  in  truth  all  this  was  too  much 
for  the  boy.  When  he  had  finished  the  last  lesson 
he  had  forgotten  the  first;  the  conjugations  of  Greek, 
Latin,  German,  and  the  names  of  various  districts  brought 
his  poor  head  into  such  confusion  that  he  could  not  sleep. 
He  crept  out  from  under  the  quilt  then,  lighted  his  lamp, 
and  sat  down  at  the  table.  When  I  reproved  him,  he 
begged  me  to  let  him  stay,  and  he  shed  tears.  I  grew  so 
accustomed  to  those  night  sittings,  to  the  light  of  the 
lamp  and  to  the  mumbling  of  conjugations,  that  when 
they  were  absent  I  myself  could  not  sleep.  Perhaps  it 
was  not  right  for  me  to  permit  the  child  to  torture  him- 
self beyond  his  strength ;  but  what  was  I  to  do  ?  He 

27 


418    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

had  to  learn  his  lessons  daily  even  in  some  fashion,  or  he 
would  be  expelled  from  school;  and  God  alone  knows 
what  a  blow  that  would  have  been  for  Pani  Marya,  who, 
left  with  two  orphans  after  the  death  of  her  husband, 
placed  all  her  hopes  on  Mihas.  The  position  was  well- 
nigh  without  escape,  for  I  saw  that  excessive  mental 
effort  was  undermining  the  health  of  the  boy,  and  might 
endanger  his  life.  It  was  needful  at  the  least  to  strengthen 
him  physically,  train  him  in  gymnastics,  make  him  walk 
a  good  deal,  or  ride  on  horseback ;  but  there  was  no  time 
for  this.  The  child  had  so  much  to  do,  so  much  to  learn 
by  rote,  so  much  to  write  every  day,  that  on  my  con- 
science I  say  that  there  was  no  time.  Every  moment 
required  for  the  recreation,  health,  and  life  of  the  boy 
was  taken  by  Latin,  Greek,  and  German. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  put  his  books  into  the  satchel 
and  saw  his  lean  shoulders  bending  under  the  weight  of 
those  great  volumes,  my  heart  simply  ached.  At  times 
I  asked  kindness  and  forbearance  for  him ;  but  the  Ger- 
man professors  merely  answered  that  I  was  spoiling  and 
petting  the  child,  that  evidently  Mihas  was  not  working 
enough,  and  that  he  would  cry  for  any  cause.  I  am 
weak-breasted  myself,  solitary,  and  sensitive  ;  hence  these 
reproaches  poisoned  more  than  one  moment  for  me.  I 
knew  best  whether  Mihas  was  working  enough.  He  was 
a  child  of  medium  gifts,  but  so  persevering,  and,  with  all 
his  mildness,  gifted  with  such  strength  of  character  as  I 
have  never  chanced  to  meet  in  another  boy.  Poor  Mihas 
was  attached  to  his  mother  passionately,  blindly  ;  and 
since  people  told  him  that  she  was  very  unhappy,  and 
sickly,  that,  if  in  addition  to  other  things,  he  would  learn 
badly  it  might  kill  her,  the  boy  trembled  at  the  thought 
of  this,  and  sat  whole  nights  over  his  books,  only  to  escape 
mortifying  his  mother.  He  burst  into  tears  when  he  re- 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    419 

ceived  a  bad  mark ;  but  it  did  not  come  to  the  head  of  any 
one  to  inquire  why  he  cried,  or  to  what  terrible  responsi- 
bility he  felt  himself  bound  at  such  moments.  Indeed, 
what  did  any  one  care  ?  I  was  not  spoiling  him,  nor  pet- 
ting him  ;  only  I  knew  him  better  than  others.  That  I  tried 
to  comfort  instead  of  scolding  him  for  failures  was  my 
affair.  I  have  toiled  myself  in  life  no  little ;  I  have  suffered 
hunger  and  sorrow  enough ;  I  have  not  been  happy ;  I 
shall  not  be  happy,  and  —  devils  take  it !  —  I  do  not  even 
grit  my  teeth  when  I  think  of  this.  I  do  not  believe 
that  life  is  worth  living  ;  but  perhaps  for  that  very  reason 
I  have  true  sympathy  for  every  misfortune. 

At  Mihas's  age,  when  I  ran  after  pigeons  on  the  streets, 
or  played  wagtails  under  the  town-hall,  I  had  my  hours 
of  health  and  joyousness  at  least.  A  cough  did  not  tor- 
ment me.  When  some  one  flogged  me  I  cried  during 
the  flogging ;  but  I  was  as  free  as  a  bird  and  cared  for 
nothing.  Mihas  had  not  even  that.  If  life  had  put  him 
on  the  anvil  and  beaten  him  with  its  hammer,  he  would 
have  gained  this  much,  —  that  as  a  boy  he  would  have 
laughed  heartily  at  that  which  amuses  children ;  he 
would  have  played  tricks,  and  tired  himself  in  the  open 
air,  in  the  sunlight.  But  I  had  not  before  me  such  a 
union  of  labor  with  childishness.  On  the  contrary,  I  saw 
a  little  boy  going  to  school  and  coming  home,  gloomy, 
bent,  straining  under  the  weight  of  books,  with  wrinkles 
in  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  ever  holding  back,  as  it  were, 
an  outburst  of  weeping;  therefore,  I  sympathized  with 
him,  and  wished  to  be  a  refuge  for  him. 

I  am  a  tutor,  though  a  private  one,  and  I  know  not 
what  I  should  do  in  the  world  were  I  to  lose  faith  in  the 
value  of  knowledge  and  the  benefit  which  flows  from  it. 
But  I  think  that  study  should  not  be  the  tragedy  of  our 
early  years ;  that  Latin  cannot  take  the  place  of  air  and 


420    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

health ;  and  that  a  good  or  bad  accent  should  not  decide 
the  fate  and  life  of  children. 

I  think,  too,  that  the  task  of  instruction  is  better 
accomplished  when  a  boy  feels  a  hand  leading  him  kindly, 
and  not  a  foot,  pressing  his  breast  and  trampling  every- 
thing which  they  teach  him  at  home  to  love  and  revere. 
I  am  .such  an  obscurant  that  I  shall  be  sure  not  to  change 
my  opinion  in  this  respect,  for  I  become  confirmed  in  it 
more  and  more  when  I  remember  my  Mihas,  whom  I  loved 
so  sincerely.  I  taught  him  six  years,  first  as  a  gover- 
nor, and,  when  he  entered  the  second  class,  as  a  tutor. 
I  had  time  therefore  to  grow  attached  to  him.  Besides, 
why  should  I  hide  from  myself  that  he  was  dear  to  me 
because  he  was  the  son  of  a  being  dear  to  me  above  all 
others.  She  has  never  known  this,  and  never  will.  I 
remember  that  I  am  —  well,  Pan  Vavrykevich,  a  private 
tutor,  and  a  sickly  man  in  addition ;  she  the  daughter  of 
a  rich,  noble  house,  a  lady  to  whom  I  dared  not  raise  my 
eyes.  But  since  a  lone  heart,  dashed  about  by  life  as  a 
mussel  is  dashed  by  the  waves,  must  attach  itself  at  last 
to  something,  my  heart  grew  to  her.  How  can  I  help  it  ? 
And  besides,  how  does  that  harm  her  ?  I  do  not  deprive 
her  of  light,  any  more  than  I  do  the  sun  which  warms 
my  weak  breast. 

I  was  six  years  in  her  house ;  I  was  present  at  the 
death  of  her  husband;  I  saw  that  she  was  unhappy, 
alone,  but  always  as  kind  as  an  angel ;  loving  her  chil- 
dren, well-nigh  a  saint  in  her  widowhood ;  hence  I  was 
forced  to  this  feeling.  But  it  is  not  love  on  my  part,  — 
it  is  rather  religion. 

Mihas  reminded  me  greatly  of  his  mother.  More  than 
once  when  he  raised  his  eyes  to  me  I  imagined  that  I  was 
looking  at  her.  The  same  delicate  features  were  present, 
the  very  same  forehead  with  a  shadow  of  rich  hair  falling 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    421 

over  it,  the  soft  outline  of  brow,  and  above  all  a  voice 
almost  identical.  In  the  disposition  of  the  mother  and 
child  there  was  a  likeness  too,  appearing  in  a  certain  ten- 
dency to  exaltation  of  feelings  and  views.  They  belonged 
both  of  them  to  that  species  of  nervous  impressionable 
people,  noble  and  loving,  who  are  capable  of  the  greatest 
sacrifices,  but  who  in  life  and  in  contact  with  its  reality 
find  little  happiness,  giving,  to  begin  with,  more  than  they 
can  receive  in  return.  That  kind  of  people  perish,  and  I 
think  now  that  some  naturalist  might  declare  them  fore- 
doomed to  extinction,  for  they  come  into  the  world  with  a 
defect  of  heart,  —  they  love  too  much. 

Mihas's  family  was  very  wealthy  at  one  time,  but  they 
loved  too  much  ;  therefore  various  storms  shattered  their 
fortune,  and  what  remained  was  not  indeed  want,  —  it  was 
not  even  poverty ;  still  in  comparison  with  former  days 
it  was  moderate.  Mihas  was  the  last  of  the  family,  there- 
fore Pani  Marya  loved  him  not  only  as  her  own  child,  but 
also  as  her  whole  hope  for  the  future.  Unfortunately, 
with  the  usual  blindness  of  mothers,  she  saw  in  him  un- 
common faculties.  The  boy  was  not  dull  indeed;  but 
he  belonged  to  that  class  of  children  whose  powers,  me- 
dium at  first,  develop  only  later,  together  with  physical 
strength  and  with  health.  In  other  conditions  he  might 
have  finished  his  course  in  the  school  and  the  University, 
and  become  a  useful  worker  in  any  career.  In  existing 
conditions  he  simply  tortured  himself,  and  knowing  his 
mother's  high  opinion  of  his  powers,  he  strained  them 
in  vain. 

My  eyes  have  seen  much  in  this  world,  and  I  have  de- 
termined to  wonder  at  nothing;  but  I  confess  that  it  was 
hard  for  me  to  believe  that  there  could  be  a  chaos,  in 
which  a  boy's  perseverance,  strength  of  character,  and  in- 
dustry would  be  against  him.  There  is  something  un- 


422    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

healthy  in  this ;  and  if  words  could  repay  me  for  sorrow 
and  bitterness,  I  should  say  with  Hamlet,  that  there  are 
things  in  the  world  which  have  not  been  dreamed  of  by 
philosophers. 

I  worked  with  Mihas  as  if  my  own  future  depended 
on  the  marks  which  he  got  for  his  lessons,  since  my  dear 
pupil  and  I  had  one  object :  not  to  afflict  her,  to  show 
good  rank,  to  call  out  a  smile  of  happiness  on  her  lips. 
When  he  succeeded  in  receiving  good  marks,  the  boy  came 
from  school  radiant  and  happy.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
in  such  cases  he  had  grown  on  a  sudden,  had  become 
erect ;  his  eyes,  usually  cloudy,  laughed  now  with  the 
unaffected  joy  of  childhood,  and  gleamed  like  two  coals. 
He  threw  from  his  narrow  shoulders  his  satchel  laden 
with  books,  and  blinking  at  me  said  while  yet  on  the 
threshold, — 

"  Pan  Vavrykevich,  mamma  will  be  satisfied  !  I  got 
to-day  in  geography  —  guess  how  many  ? " 

And  when  I  pretended  that  I  could  not  guess,  he  ran  to 
me  with  a  proud  mien,  and  throwing  his  arms  around  my 
neck,  said  as  if  in  a  whisper,  but  very  loud,  — 

"  Five  !  truly  five  ! " 

Those  were  happy  moments  for  us.  In  the  evenings 
of  such  days  Mihas  fell  to  dreaming,  and  imagined  to 
himself  what  would  come  to  pass  were  he  to  receive  ex- 
cellent marks  all  the  time,  and  said  half  to  me,  half  to 
himself,  — 

"  On  Christmas  we  will  go  to  Zalesin ;  the  snow  will 
fall,  as  it  does  always  in  winter  ;  we  '11  go  in  a  sleigh.  We  '11 
arrive  at  night,  but  oh  !  mamma  will  be  waiting  for  me ; 
she  '11  hug  me  and  kiss  me,  then  ask  about  my  marks. 
I  '11  put  on  a  sad  face  purposely  ;  then  mamma  will  read 
religion  excellent,  German  excellent,  Latin  excellent,  — 
most  excellent !  Oh,  Pan  Vavrykevich !  " 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    423 

The  poor  little  boy  !  tears  were  in  his  eyes  ;  and  I,  in- 
stead of  restraining  him,  hurried  after  .him  with  unwearied 
imagination,  and  recalled  to  myself  the  house  in  Zalesin, 
its  dignity,  its  calm,  that  lofty,  noble  being  who  was  mis- 
tress there,  and  the  happiness  which  the  return  of  the 
boy  with  his  excellent  rank  would  bring  to  her. 

I  took  advantage  of  such  moments,  and  gave  Mihas 
advice,  explaining  to  him  that  mamma  cared  greatly  for 
his  studies,  but  cared  also  for  his  health  ;  hence  he  must 
not  cry  when  I  took  him  to  walk,  he  must  sleep  as  much 
as  I  prescribed,  and  not  persist  in  sitting  up  at  night. 
The  boy,  affected  by  this,  embraced  me  and  said,  — 

"  I  will  obey,  my  golden  Pan.  I  shall  be  so  well  that 
it  will  be  a  wonder  to  look  at  me,  and  I  '11  be  so  fat  that 
neither  mamma  nor  little  Lola  will  know  me." 

I  too  received  letters  frequently  from  Pani  Marya, 
recommending  me  to  watch  over  the  health  of  the  child ; 
but  I  convinced  myself  daily  with  despair  that  that  was 
well-nigh  impossible.  If  the  subjects  taught  were  too 
difficult  I  could  have  mended  the  matter  by  removing 
Mihas  from  the  second  to  the  first  class ;  but  those  sub- 
jects, though  dry,  he  understood  perfectly.  It  was  not  a 
question  of  learning,  but  of  time  and  of  that  unfortunate 
German  language,  which  the  child  could  not  speak 
satisfactorily.  In  this  I  was  powerless,  and  calculated 
only  that  when  the  holidays  came,  rest  would  fill  out 
those  breaches  in  the  boy's  health  made  by  excessive 
labor. 

If  Mihas  had  been  a  child  of  less  feeling  I  should  have 
been  less  anxious  about  him ;  but  he  felt  every  failure 
almost  more  keenly  than  he  did  success.  The  moments 
of  joy  and  those  fives  which  I  have  mentioned  were  rare, 
unfortunately. 

I  had  so  learned  to  read  his  face  that  the  moment  he 


424    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

came,  I  knew  at  the  first  glance  of  the  eye  that  he  had 
not  succeeded.  "  Did  you  get  a  bad  mark  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  did." 

"  You  did  n't  know  the  lesson  ? " 

Sometimes  he  answered,  "  I  did  n't  know ;  "  but  oftener, 
"  I  knew,  but  I  was  n't  able  to  tell  it." 

In  fact  little  Ovitski,  the  first  in  the  second  class,  whom 
I  purposely  brought  in  that  Mihas  might  learn  with  him, 
said  that  Mihas  received  bad  marks  chiefly  because  he 
could  not  "tongue  out." 

As  the  child  felt  more  and  more  wearied  mentally  and 
physically,  such  failures  came  oftener.  I  noticed  that 
after  having  cried  all  he  wanted  he  sat  down  to  his  lesson 
quietly  and  as  though  he  were  calm ;  but  in  that  re- 
doubled energy  with  which  he  turned  to  his  tasks  there 
was  something  both  desperate  and  feverish.  Sometimes 
he  went  into  a  corner,  pressed  his  head  with  both  hands, 
and  was  silent;  the  imaginative  boy  fancied  that  he  was 
digging  a  grave  under  the  feet  of  his  darling  mother, 
knew  not  how  to  escape  this,  and  felt  himself  in  a  vicious 
circle  from  which  there  was  no  escape. 

His  night  work  became  more  frequent.  Fearing  that 
when  I  woke  I  would  order  him  to  bed,  he  rose  in  the 
dark,  silently  carried  the  lamp  to  the  antechamber,  lighted 
it  there,  and  sat  down  to  work.  Before  I  caught  him  he 
had  passed  a  number  of  nights  in  this  way  between  un- 
heated  walls.  I  had  no  other  resource  than  to  rise,  call 
him  to  the  chamber,  and  go  over  all  the  lessons  once 
more  with  him,  to  convince  him  that  he  knew  them  and 
that  he  exposed  himself  to  cold  without  reason.  But  at 
last  he  did  n't  know  himself  what  he  did  know.  The 
child  lost  strength,  grew  thin,  pale,  and  became  more  and 
more  despondent.  Something  happened  after  a  time  to 
convince  me  that  not  work  alone  was  exhausting  him. 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    425 

Once,  while  I.  was  explaining  to  him  the  history  that 
."  An  Uncle  told  his  Nephews," l  which  at  the  request  of 
Pani  Marya  I  did  daily,  Mihas  sprang  up  with  flashing 
eyes.  I  was  frightened  almost  when  I  saw  the  inquiring 
and  stern  look  on  his  face  as  he  cried,  — 

"  Pan  !  is  that  really  not  a  fable  ?     For  —  " 

"  Why  did  you  ask,  Mihas  ? "  inquired  I,  with  astonish- 
ment. 

Instead  of  an  answer  he  gritted  his  teeth,  and  burst 
out  at  last  into  such  passionate  weeping  that  for  a  long 
time  I  was  unable  to  quiet  him. 

I  inquired  of  Ovitski  touching  the  cause  of  this  out- 
burst. He  either  knew  not,  or  would  not  tell ;  but  I  dis- 
covered myself.  There  was  no  doubt  that  in  the  German 
school  the  Polish  child  had  to  hear  many  things  that 
wounded  his  feelings.  Such  teachings  slipped  over  other 
boys,  leaving  no  trace  except  ill-will  against  the  teachers 
and  their  whole  race ;  Mihas,  a  boy  of  such  uprightness, 
felt  these  teachings  acutely,  but  dared  not  contradict 
them.  Two  powers,  two  voices,  obedience  to  which  is  the 
duty  of  a  child,  but  which  for  that  very  reason  should  be 
in  harmony,  were  tearing  Mihas  in  two  opposite  direc- 
tions. What  one  power  called  white,  worthy,  beloved, 
the  other  called  a  stain  vile  and  ridiculous ;  what  one 
called  virtue  the  other  called  vice.  Therefore  in  that 
separation  the  boy  followed  the  power  to  which  his  heart 
was  attracted,  but  he  had  to  pretend  that  he  obeyed  and 
took  to  heart  words  of  the  opposite  meaning.  He  had  to 
pretend  from  morning  till  night,  and  to  live  in  that  tor- 
turing constraint  days,  weeks,  months.  What  a  position 
for  a  child ! 

Mihas's  fate  was  remarkable.  Dramas  of  life  begin  later 
usually,  when  the  first  leaves  are  falling  from  the  tree  of 
1  One  of  Lelewell's  histories  of  Poland. 


426    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

youth ;  for  him  everything  which  creates  unhappiness  — 
such  as  moral  constraint,  concealed  regret,  trouble  of 
mind,  vain  efforts,  struggling  with  difficulties,  gradual  loss 
of  hope  —  began  in  the  eleventh  year  of  his  life.  Neither 
his  slight  form  nor  his  weak  forces  could  carry  those 
burdens.  Days,  weeks  passed  ;  the  poor  boy  redoubled  his 
efforts,  and  the  result  was  always  less,  always  more 
lamentable.  The  letters  of  Pani  Marya,  though  sweet, 
added  weight  to  the  burden.  "  God  has  gifted  you,  Mihas, 
with  uncommon  capacities,"  wrote  she ;  "  and  I  trust  that 
you  will  not  disappoint  the  hopes  that  I  place  in  you, 
that  you  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me  and  the  country." 

When  the  boy  received  such  a  letter  the  first  time  he 
seized  my  hand  spasmodically,  and  borne  away  by  weep- 
ing began  to  repeat,  — 

"  What  shall  I  do,  Pan  Vavrykevich,  what  can  I  do  ? " 

In  truth  what  could  he  do?  How  could  he  help  it 
that  he  had  n't  come  into  the  world  with  an  inborn 
power  over  languages,  and  that  he  could  not  pronounce 
German  ? 

Before  the  recess  at  All  Saints,  the  quarterly  return 
was  not  very  favorable ;  in  three  of  the  most  important 
subjects  he  had  low  marks.  At  his  most  urgent  prayers 
and  entreaties  I  did  not  send  it  to  Pani  Marya. 

"Dear  Pan,"  cried  he,  putting  his  hands  together, 
"  mamma  does  n't  know  that  they  give  rank  at  All  Saints, 
and  before  Christmas  the  Lord  God  may  take  pity  on 
me." 

The  poor  child  deluded  himself  with  the  hope  that  he 
would  raise  his  low  rank;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  de- 
ceived myself  also.  I  thought  that  he  would  grow 
accustomed  to  school  routine,  that  he  would  grow  accus- 
tomed to  everything,  be  trained  in  German,  and  acquire 
the  accent ;  above  all,  that  he  would  need  less  and  less 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    427 

time  for  his  lessons.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  I  should 
have  written  long  before  to  Pani  Marya  and  laid  before 
her  the  condition  of  affairs.  In  fact  hopes  did  not  seem 
vain.  Just  after  All  Saints  Mihas  received  three  perfect 
marks,  one  of  which  was  in  Latin.  Of  all  the  pupils  in 
the  class  he  alone  knew  that  the  perfect  of  gaudeo  is 
gavisus  sum,  and  he  knew  it  because  he  had  received 
before  that  two  perfect  marks  and  had  inquired  of  me 
what  "I  rejoice"  is  in  Latin.  I  thought  that  the  boy 
would  go  wild  from  delight.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
mother  beginning  with  these  words :  "  Does  my  beloved 
mamma  know  what  the  perfect  of  gaudeo  is  ?  Surely 
neither  mamma  nor  little  Lola  knows,  for  in  the  whole 
class  I  was  the  only  one  who  knew." 

Mihas  simply  adored  his  mother.  From  that  time  he 
was  inquiring  of  me  continually  about  various  perfects 
and  participles.  High  marks  had  become  the  object  of 
his  life.  But  the  gleam  of  fortune  was  brief.  Soon  his 
fatal  Polish  accent  ruined  all  that  effort  had  built  up,  and 
the  excessive  number  of  subjects  did  not  permit  the  child 
to  give  each  as  much  time  as  his  strained  memory  needed. 
A  circumstance  caused  also  an  increase  of  his  failures. 
Mihas  and  Ovitski  forgot  to  inform  me  of  a  certain  task 
in  writing,  and  omitted  it.  That  passed  for  Ovitski,  since 
he  stood  first  the  professors  did  not  even  ask  him  about 
it;  but  Mihas  received  a  public  admonition  in  school, 
with  a  threat  of  expulsion. 

They  seemed  to  think  that  he  had  concealed  the  task 
from  me  intentionally,  so  as  not  to  perform  it,  and  the  boy, 
who  was  incapable  of  the  least  falsehood,  had  no  means 
of  proving  his  innocence.  He  might,  it  is  true,  say  in 
self-defence  that  Ovitski  had  forgotten  as  well  as  he ;  but 
school  honor  would  not  permit  such  a  statement.  The 
Germans  answered  my  assurances  with  the  remark  that 


428    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

I  encouraged  the  youngster  to  laziness.  That  was  no 
slight  offence  to  me ;  but  the  appearance  of  Mihas  in- 
creased my  anxiety.  In  the  evening  of  that  day  I  saw 
that  he  pressed  his  head  with  both  hands,  and  whispered, 
thinking  that  I  did  not  hear  him,  "  It  pains,  it  pains,  it 
pains ! "  The  letter  from  his  mother,  which  came  next 
day,  and  in  which  Pani  Marya  overwhelmed  him  with 
tenderness  for  those  good  marks,  was  a  fresh  blow  for 
him. 

"Oh,  I  am  preparing  nice  consolation  for  mamma!" 
cried  he,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Next  day,  when  I  put  the  satchel  of  books  on  his 
shoulders,  he  tottered  and  came  near  falling.  I  wished  to 
keep  him  from  school,  but  he  said  that  nothing  was  the 
matter  ;  he  merely  asked  me  to  go  with  him,  for  he  feared 
dizziness.  He  came  back  in  the  evening  with  a  new  mid- 
dling mark.  He  received  it  for  a  lesson  which  he  knew 
perfectly,  but  according  to  Ovitski  he  grew  frightened 
and  could  n't  say  a  word.  The  opinion  was  confirmed 
decidedly,  —  "that  he  was  a  boy  filled  with  retrograde 
principles  and  instincts,  that  he  was  lazy  and  dull." 

The  last  two  reproaches  came  to  his  knowledge,  and 
he  struggled  with  them  desperately  but  vainly  —  as  a 
drowning  man  struggles  with  a  wave. 

At  last  he  lost  all  faith  in  himself,  all  confidence  in 
his  own  powers  ;  he  came  to  the  conviction  that  efforts 
and  labor  were  useless,  that  he  could  n't  help  learning 
badly ;  and  at  the  same  time  he  imagined  what  his 
mother  would  say,  what  pain  it  would  be  for  her,  and 
how  it  might  undermine  her  weak  health. 

The  priest  in  Zalesin  who  wrote  to  him  sometimes 
was  very  friendly,  but  incautious.  Every  letter  of  his 
finished  with  these  words :  "  Let  Mihas  remember  then 
that  not  only  the  joy  but  the  health  of  his  mother 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    429 

depends  on  his  progress  in  learning  and  in  morality." 
He  remembered  too  much,  for  even  in  sleep  he  repeated 
with  sad  voice :  "  Mamma,  mamma ! "  as  if  begging  her 
forgiveness. 

But  when  awake,  he  received  lower  and  lower  marks. 
Christmas  was  coming  quickly,  and  as  to  rank  it  was 
impossible  to  be  deceived.  I  wrote  to  Pani  Mary  a,  wish- 
ing to  forewarn  her,  told  her  plainly  and  positively  that 
the  child  was  weak  and  overburdened ;  that  in  spite  of 
the  greatest  effort  lie  could  not  do  his  work ;  and  that 
probably  it  would  be  necessary  to  take  him  from  school 
after  the  holidays,  to  keep  him  in  the  country,  and, 
above  all,  to  strengthen  his  health.  Though  I  felt  in 
her  answer  that  her  motherly  affection  was  wounded 
somewhat,  still  she  wrote  like  a  sensible  woman  and  a 
loving  mother.  I  did  not  mention  this  letter  to  Mihas, 
nor  the  design  of  taking  him  from  school,  for  I  feared  the 
effect  on  him  of  every  powerful  excitement;  I  mentioned 
only  that,  whatever  might  happen,  his  mother  knew  that 
he  was  working,  and  she  would  be  able  to  understand  his 
failure.  That  gave  him  evident  comfort,  for  he  wept  long 
and  heartily,  —  which  had  not  happened  to  him  for  some 
time.  While  weeping,  he  repeated  :  "  How  much  pain  I 
cause  mamma ! "  Still  at  the  thought  that  soon  he 
would  return  to  the  country,  would  see  his  mother  and 
little  Lola  and  Father  Mashynski,  he  laughed  through 
his  tears.  I  too  was  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  Zalesin,  for  I 
could  hardly  bear  to  look  at  the  condition  of  the  child. 
There  the  heart  of  a  mother  was  waiting  for  him,  and  the 
good  will  of  people,  with  calm  and  peace  ;  there  know- 
ledge had  for  him  a  native  air,  well  wishing,  not  strange 
and  repellent ;  there  the  whole  atmosphere  was  familiar 
and  pure,  —  the  boy's  breast  might  breathe  it. 

I  was  looking  to  the  holidays,  therefore,  as  to  salvation 


430    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

for  the  boy  ;  and  I  counted  on  my  fingers  the  hours  which 
separated  us  from  them,  but  which  brought  more  and 
more  new  vexation  to  Mihas.  It  seemed  as  though 
everything  had  conspired  against  him.  Mihas  had  re- 
ceived again  a  public  admonition  for  demoralizing  others. 
That  was  just  before  the  holidays ;  therefore  it  had  the 
more  significance.  How  the  ambitious  and  impression- 
able boy  felt  the  blow,  I  will  not  undertake  to  describe  ; 
what  chaos  must  have  risen  in  his  mind !  Everything 
was  eager  in  that  childish  breast,  and  before  his  eyes  he 
saw  darkness  instead  of  light.  He  bent  then  as  an  ear 
of  grain  before  the  blast.  Finally,  the  face  of  that  boy 
of  eleven  took  on  an  expression  simply  tragic ;  he  looked 
as  if  weeping  were  stopping  his  throat  continually,  as  if 
he  restrained  sobbing  by  effort ;  at  times  his  eyes  looked 
like  the  eyes  of  a  suffering  bird;  then  a  wonderful 
thoughtfulness  and  drowsiness  took  possession  of  him ; 
his  motions  became  as  it  were  unconscious,  and  his  voice 
mechanically  obedient. 

When  I  told  him  that  it  was  time  to  walk,  he  did  not 
resist  as  formerly,  but  took  his  cap  and  followed  me  in 
silence.  I  should  have  been  content  had  that  been  in- 
difference ;  but  I  saw  that  under  the  appearance  of  it  was 
hidden  an  exalted  and  suffering  resignation.  He  sat  at 
his  lessons,  performed  his  tasks  as  before,  but  rather 
from  habit.  It  was  evident  that,  while  repeating  the 
conjugations  mechanically,  he  was  thinking  of  something 
else,  or  rather  he  was  not  thinking  of  anything.  Once, 
when  I  asked  whether  he  had  finished  everything,  he 
answered  in  a  slow  voice,  and  as  if  sleepily :  "  I  think, 
Pan  Vavrykevich,  that  this  is  no  use."  I  feared  even  to 
mention  his  mother  before  him,  so  as  not  to  fill  to  over- 
flowing that  cup  of  bitterness  from  which  his  childish  lips 
were  drinking- 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    431 

I  was  more  and  more  alarmed  about  his  health,  for  he 
grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  at  last  became  almost 
transparent.  The  network  of  delicate  veins,  which  ap- 
peared on  his  temples  before  when  he  was  greatly  excited, 
had  now  become  permanent.  He  had  grown  so  beautiful 
that  he  was  almost  like  an  image.  It  was  painful  to 
look  at  that  childish  head,  half  angelic,  which  produced 
the  impression  of  a  withering  flower.  Apparently  it  was 
as  if  nothing  was  the  matter;  but  he  sank,  and  lost 
power.  He  was  able  no  longer  to  carry  all  his  books  in 
the  satchel ;  hence  I  gave  only  some  to  him,  and  carried 
the  others,  for  now  I  accompanied  Mihas  to  and  from 
school. 

At  last  the  holidays  were  at  hand.  The  horses  from 
Zalesin  were  waiting  two  days  for  us,  and  Pani  Marya's 
letter,  which  came  with  them,  stated  that  all  were  expect- 
ing us  there  with  impatience.  "  I  have  heard,"  concluded 
Pani  Marya,  "  that  it  goes  hard  with  you,  Mihas ;  I  do 
not  look  for  high  marks ;  I  wish  only  that  the  teachers 
should  think  with  me  that  you  have  done  what  you 
could,  and  that  with  good  conduct  you  have  tried  to 
atone  for  deficient  progress." 

But  the  teachers  thought  differently  in  every  respect ; 
therefore,  his  rank  deceived  even  that  expectation.  The 
last  public  admonition  touched  the  boy's  conduct  directly, 
—  that  conduct  concerning  which  Pani  Marya  had  such 
a  high  opinion.  In  the  judgment  of  the  German  profes- 
sors only  that  boy  conducted  himself  well  who  repaid 
with  laughter  their  jests  at  the  "  backwardness  of  the 
Poles,"  at  their  language  and  traditions.  As  a  result  of 
these  ethical  ideas  Mihas,  as  not  giving  hopes  of  hearing 
their  explanations  in  future  with  profit,  and  as  occupying 
the  place  of  another  for  nothing,  was  expelled  from  the 
school. 


432    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

He  brought  the  sentence  in  the  evening.  It  had  grown 
dark  in  the  house,  for  very  heavy  snow  was  falling  out- 
side ;  hence  I  could  not  see  the  child's  face.  I  saw  only 
that  he  went  to  the  window,  stood  in  it,  and  looked 
without  thought,  in  silence,  on  the  snownakes  whirling 
in  the  wind.  I  did  not  envy  the  poor  little  fellow  the 
thoughts  which  must  have  been  whirling  in  his  head  like 
the  snownakes  outside ;  but  I  preferred  not  to  speak  to 
him  touching  his  rank  and  the  sentence.  In  that  way  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  passed  in  bitter  silence ;  but  mean- 
while it  grew  dark  almost  completely.  I  betook  myself 
to  packing  the  trunk  ;  but  seeing  that  Mihas  was  stand- 
ing yet  at  the  window,  I  said  at  last,  — 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  Mihas  ?  " 

"  Is  it  true,"  answered  he,  in  a  voice  which  quivered 
and  hesitated  at  every  syllable,  "  that  mamma  is  sitting 
now  with  Lola  in  the  green  room  before  the  fire,  and 
thinking  of  me  ? " 

"  Perhaps  she  is.  Why  does  your  voice  tremble  so,  — 
are  you  sick  ?  " 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter  with  me,  Pan  Vavrykevich ; 
only  I  am  very  cold." 

I  undressed  him,  and  put  him  straightway  to  bed; 
while  undressing  him,  I  looked  with  compassion  on  his 
emaciated  knees,  and  his  arms  as  thin  as  reed-stalks.  I 
ordered  him  to  drink  tea,  and  covered  him  with  what 
was  possible. 

"  Are  you  warmer  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  but  my  head  aches  a  little." 

Poor  head !  It  had  reason  to  ache.  The  suffering  child 
fell  asleep  soon,  and  breathed  laboriously  in  his  sleep 
with  his  narrow  breast.  'I  finished  packing  his  and  my 
own  things ;  then,  since  I  did  not  feel  well,  I  lay  down 
at  once.  I  blew  out  the  light,  and  fell  asleep  almost  that 
moment. 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    433 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  lamp  and  the 
monotonous  well-known  muttering  waked  me.  I  opened 
my  eyes,  and  my  heart  beat  unquietly.  On  the  table 
was  the  lighted  lamp,  and  at  the  table  sat  Mihas  over  a 
book.  He  was  in  his  shirt  only ;  his  cheeks  were  burn- 
ing, his  eyes  partly  closed  as  if  for  better  exertion  of  his 
memory;  his  head  was  thrown  back  a  little,  and  his 
sleepy  voice  repeated,  — 

"  Subjunctive :  Amem,  ames,  amet,  amemus,  ametis  —  " 

"  Mihas ! " 

"  Subjunctive :  Amem,  ames  — 

I  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

He  woke  up,  and  began  to  blink  from  astonishment, 
looking  at  me  as  if  he  did  not  know  me. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?     What  is  the  matter,  child  ? " 

"  Pan  Vavrykevich,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  I  am  repeating 
everything  from  the  beginning ;  I  must  get  a  perfect 
mark  to-morrow." 

I  took  him  in  my  arms,  and  carried  him  to  bed ;  his 
body  burned  me  like  fire.  Happily  the  doctor  lived  in 
the  same  house ;  I  brought  him  at  once.  He  had  no 
need  to  think  long.  He  held  the  boy's  pulse  a  moment, 
then  put  his  hand  on  his  forehead.  Mihas  had  inflam- 
mation of  the  brain. 

Ah,  there  were  many  things  evidently  which  could  not 
find  place  in  his  head  ! 

His  sickness  acquired  alarming  proportions  immedi- 
ately. I  sent  a  despatch  to  Pani  Marya,  and  on  the  next 
day  a  violent  pull  at  the  bell  in  the  antechamber  an- 
nounced her  arrival.  In  fact,  when  I  opened  the  door,  I 
saw  through  the  black  veil  her  face,  pale  as  linen.  Her 
fingers  rested  on  my  shoulder  with  uncommon  force,  and 
her  whole  soul  rushed  out  through  her  eyes,  which  were 
fixed  on  me,  when  she  asked  briefly,  — 

28 


434    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

"  Is  he  alive  ? " 

"  He  is.     The  doctor  says  that  he  is  better." 

She  threw  aside  the  veil,  on  which  hoar  frost  had  set- 
tled from  her  breath,  and  hurried  to  the  boy's  chamber. 
I  had  lied.  Mihas  was  alive,  it  is  true ;  but  he  was  not 
better.  He  did  not  even  know  his  mother  when  she  sat 
near  him,  and  took  his  hand.  Only  when  I  had  placed 
fresh  ice  on  his  head  did  he  begin  to  blink,  and  look  with 
effort  at  the  face  bent  above  him.  His  mind  made  an 
evident  effort,  struggling  with  fever  and  delirium ;  his 
lips  quivered,  he  smiled  once  and  a  second  time,  and 
whispered  at  la-st,  — 

"  Mamma ! " 

She  seized  both  his  hands,  and  sat  in  that  way  at  his 
side  a  number  of  hours,  not  casting  aside  even  her  trav- 
elling costume.  Only  when  I  turned  her  attention  to 
this,  did  she  say,  — 

"  True.     I  forgot  to  remove  my  hat." 

When  she  took  it  off,  my  heart  was  oppressed  with  a 
wonderful  feeling  :  among  the  blond  hair  adorning  that 
young  and  beautiful  head,  silver  threads  were  gleaming 
thickly.  Three  days  ago,  perhaps,  there  were  none  there. 

She  changed  compresses  for  the  boy  herself,  and  gave 
him  the  medicine.  Mihas  followed  her  with  his  eyes 
wherever  she  moved,  but  again  he  did  not  recognize  her. 
In  the  evening  the  fever  increased ;  he  declaimed  in  his 
raving  the  ballad  about  "  Jolkevski  from  Nyemtsevich ; " 
at  times  he  spoke  in  the  language  of  teaching ;  again 
he  conjugated  various  Latin  verbs.  I  left  the  room  re- 
peatedly, for  I  could  not  listen  to  this.  While  in  good 
health,  he  had  been  learning  in  secret  to  serve  at  Mass, 
wishing  to  give  his  mother  a  surprise  when  he  came 
home ;  and  now  a  shiver  passed  through  me  when  in  the 
stillness  of  the  evening  I  heard  that  boy  of  eleven  years 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.     435 

repeating  before  his  death  with  a  monotonous  and  expir- 
ing voice :  "  Deus  meus,  quare  me  repulisti,  et  quare 
tristis  incedo  dum  affligit  me  inimicus  [My  God,  why  hast 
Thou  rejected  me,  and  why  am  I  walking  in  grief  while 
my  enemy  afflicts  me]  ? " 

I  cannot  tell  what  a  tragic  impression  these  words 
produced.  It  was  Christmas  eve.  From  the  street  came 
the  hum  of  people  and  the  tinkling  of  sleigh-bells.  The 
town  had  taken  on  a  holiday  and  joyful  exterior.  When 
it  had  grown  dark  completely,  through  the  windows  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street  was  to  be  seen  an  evergreen- 
tree  gleaming  with  lights,  and  hung  with  glittering  gold 
and  silver  nuts,  and  around  it  the  heads  of  children 
bright  and  dark,  with  locks  flowing  in  the  air,  jumping 
as  if  on  springs.  The  windows  were  gleaming,  and  the 
whole  interior  resounded  with  cries  of  delight  and  won- 
der. Among  the  voices  coming  from  the  street  there 
were  none  except  joyous  ones,  gladness  had  become  uni- 
versal ;  our  boy  alone  repeated,  as  if  with  great  sorrow : 
"  Deus  meus,  Deus  meus,  quare  me  repulisti  ?  "  At  the 
gate,  boys  halted  with  a  little  booth,  and  soon  the  song 
reached  us  :  "  He  is  lying  in  the  manger,  who  will  run 
to  greet  the  little  stranger?"  Christmas  night  was 
approaching,  and  we  trembled  lest  it  should  be  a  night 
of  death. 

After  awhile  it  seemed  to  us,  however,  that  the  boy 
had  become  conscious,  for  he  began  to  call  Lola  and  his 
mother;  but  that  was  of  short  duration.  His  quick 
breathing  stopped  at  times  altogether.  There  was  no 
cause  for  self-deception  ;  that  little  soul  was  already  only 
half  with  us.  His  mind  had  flown  away,  and  now  he 
was  going  himself  into  some  dark  distance  and  endless- 
ness ;  already  he  saw  no  one,  and  felt  nothing,  —  not 
even  the  head  of  his  mother,  which  was  lying  as  if  dead 


436     FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

at  his  feet.  He  had  grown  indifferent,  and  looked  no 
longer  at  us.  Every  breath  of  his  bosom  removed  him, 
and  as  it  were  pushed  him  out  into  the  darkness. 
Disease  was  quenching  spark  after  spark  of  his  life.  The 
hands  of  the  child  lying  on  the  coverlet  were  outlined  on 
it  with  heavy  helplessness,  the  mark  of  death ;  his  nose 
became  sharp,  and  his  face  took  on  a  certain  cold  serious- 
ness. His  breath  became  quicker,  and  at  last  was  like 
the  ticking  of  a  watch.  A  moment  more,  another  sigh, 
and  the  last  grain  of  sand  was  to  fall  from  the  hourglass ; 
the  end  was  inevitable. 

About  midnight  it  seemed  to  us  decisively  that  he  was 
dying,  for  he  began  to  rattle  and  groan  like  a  man  into 
whose  mouth  water  is  flowing,  and  then  he  was  silent 
suddenly.  But  the  glass  which  the  doctor  placed  at  his 
lips  was  covered  yet  with  the  mist  of  respiration.  An 
hour  later  the  fever  decreased  all  at  once  ;  we  thought 
that  he  was  saved.  The  doctor  himself  had  some  hope. 
Poor  Pani  Marya  grew  faint. 

In  the  course  of  two  hours  he  was  better  and  better. 
Toward  morning,  since  that  was  the  fourth  night  which 
I  had  spent  near  the  boy  without  sleeping,  and  since  a 
cough  was  stifling  me  with  growing  violence,  I  went  to 
the  anteroom,  lay  on  a  straw  bed,  and  fell  asleep.  The 
voice  of  Pani  Marya  roused  me.  I  thought  that  she  was 
calling  me,  but  in  the  stillness  of  night  I  heard  clearly, 
"  Mihas  !  Mihas  ! "  The  hair  stood  on  my  head,  for  I 
understood  the  terrible  accent  with  which  she  cried  to  the 
child ;  before  I  sprang  up,  however,  she  ran  in  herself, 
holding  the  light  in  her  hand,  and  whispered  with  quiver- 
ing lips,  — 

"  Mihas  —  is  dead  ! " 

I  ran  in  a  breath  to  the  boy's  bed.  So  it  was.  The 
head  fallen  back  on  the  pillow,  the  mouth  open,  the  eyes 


FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN.    437 

fixed  without  motion  on  one  point,  and  the  rigidity  of 
every  feature,  left  not  the  least  doubt :  Mihas  was  dead. 

I  covered  him  with  the  quilt,  which  his  mother,  in 
springing  away  from  the  bed,  had  pulled  from  his 
emaciated  body.  I  closed  his  eyes,  and  then  I  had  to 
rub  Pani  Marya  a  long  time. 

The  first  day  of  the  Christmas  season  passed  in  prepa- 
rations for  the  funeral,  preparations  which  for  me  were 
terrible,  since  Pani  Marya  would  not  leave  the  corpse,  and 
fainted  continually.  She  fainted  when  men  came  to  take 
the  dimensions  of  the  coffin,  again  when  they  began  to  pre- 
pare the  body,  finally  when  the  catafalque  was  put  up.  Her 
despair  was  in  continual  clash  with  the  indifference  of  the 
undertaker's  assistants,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  similar 
sights,  and  passed  almost  into  raving.  She  herself  put 
shavings  in  the  coffin  under  the  satin,  repeating,  as  if  in  a 
fever,  that  the  child's  head  would  be  too  low.  And  Mihas 
was  lying  meanwhile  on  his  bed,  in  his  new  uniform  and 
white  gloves,  rigid,  indifferent,  and '  calm.  We  placed  the 
body  at  last  in  the  coffin,  put  that  on  the  catafalque,  and  set 
two  rows  of  candles  around  it.  The  room  in  which  the 
poor  child  had  conjugated  so  many  Latin  verbs  and 
worked  out  so  many  lessons  had  changed  as  it  were  into 
a  chapel,  for  the  closed  windows  did  not  admit  sunshine, 
and  the  yellow,  flickering  light  of  the  candles  gave  the 
walls  a  certain  church-like  and  solemn  appearance. 
Never  since  Mihas  had  received  his  last  high  mark  had  I 
seen  his  face  so  full  of  contentment.  His  delicate  profile 
turned  to  the  ceiling  was  smiling,  as  if  in  that  eternal 
reaction  of  death  the  boy  had  pleased  himself  and  felt 
happy.  The  flickering  of  the  candles  gave  to  his  face  and 
to  that  smile  an  appearance  of  life  and  sleep. 

By  degrees  those  of  his  schoolmates  who  had  not 
gone  home  for  the  holidays  began  to  assemble.  The 


438    FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  TUTOR  IN  POZNAN. 

eyes  of  the  children  grew  wide  with  wonder  at  sight  of 
the  candles,  the  catafalque,  and  the  coffin.  Perhaps  the 
dignity  and  importance  of  their  comrade  astonished  the 
little  scholars.  Not  long  since  he  was  among  them, 
bending  like  them  under  the  weight  of  a  satchel  overladen 
with  German  books ;  he  received  bad  marks,  was  scolded 
and  admonished  publicly  ;  each  might  pull  his  hair  or  his 
ears.  But  now  he  lay  there  above  them,  dignified,  calm, 
surrounded  with  light ;  all  approached  him  with  respect 
and  a  certain  awe,  —  and  even  Ovitski,  though  the  first 
scholar,  did  not  mean  much  before  him.  The  boys, 
pushing  each  other  with  their  elbows,  whispered  that  now 
he  cared  for  nothing ;  that  even  if  the  "  Herr  Inspector  " 
had  come,  he  would  nqt  spring  up  nor  be  frightened,  but 
would  continue  to  smile  quietly  as  before.  "  He  can  do 
just  as  he  likes,"  said  they ;  "  he  can  shout  as  he  likes, 
and  talk  to  little  angels  with  wings  on  their  shoulders." 

Thus  they  approached  the  rows  of  candles,  and  asked 
eternal  rest  for  Mihas. 

The  next  day  the  coffin  was  covered  with  the  lid, 
fastened  with  nails,  and  taken  to  the  cemetery,  where 
lumps  of  sand  mixed  with  snow  soon  concealed  it  from 
my  eyes  forever.  To-day,  as  I  write,  almost  a  year  has 
passed  from  that  time ;  but  I  remember  thee,  and  I 
mourn  for  thee,  my  little  Mihas,  my  flower  withered  un- 
timely. I  know  not  where  thou  art,  or  if  thou  dost 
hear  me ;  I  know  only  that  thy  old  teacher's  cough  is 
increasing,  that  the  world  seems  more  oppressive  to  him, 
that  he  is  more  lonely,  and  may  go  soon  to  the  place 
whither  thou  hast  gone. 


THE   LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER 
OF  ASPINWALL. 


THE   LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER 
OF  ASPINWALL. 

CHAPTER   I. 

ON  a  time  it  happened  that  the  light-house  keeper  in 
Aspinwall,  not  far  from  Panama,  disappeared  with- 
out a  trace.  Since  he  disappeared  during  a  storm,  it  was 
supposed  that  the  ill-fated  man  went  to  the  very  edge  of 
the  small,  rocky  island  on  which  the  light-house  is  situ- 
ated, and  was  swept  out  by  a  wave.  This  supposition 
seemed  the  more  likely  as  his  boat  was  not  found  in  its 
rocky  niche  the  next  day.  The  position  of  light-house 
keeper  had  become  vacant.  It  was  necessary  to  fill  this 
position  at  the  earliest,  since  the  light-house  had  no  small 
significance  for  the  local  movement  as  well  as  for  vessels 
going  from  New  York  to  Panama.  Mosquito  Bay 
abounds  in  banks  and  sandbars.  Among  these  naviga- 
tion even  in  the  daytime  is  difficult ;  but  at  night,  espe- 
cially with  the  fogs  which  are  so  frequent  on  those 
waters  warmed  by  the  sun  of  the  tropics,  it  is  almost 
impossible.  The  only  guide  at  that  time  for  the  numer- 
ous vessels  is  the  light-house. 

The  task  of  finding  a  new  keeper  fell  to  the  United 
States  consul  in  Panama,  and  this  task  was  no  small 
one:  first,  because  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  find 
the  man  within  twelve  hours ;  second,  the  man  must 
be  unusually  conscientious,  —  it  was  not  possible,  of 


442    LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER   OF   ASPINWALL. 

course,  to  take  the  first  comer  at  random  ;  finally,  there 
was  an  utter  lack  of  candidates.  Life  on  a  -tower  is 
uncommonly  difficult,  and  by  no  means  enticing  to  people 
of  the  South,  who  love  idleness  and  the  freedom  of  a 
vagrant  life.  That  light-house  keeper  is  almost  a  pris- 
oner. He  cannot  leave  his  rocky  island  except  on  Sun- 
days. A  boat  from  Aspinwall  brings  him  provisions  and 
water  once  a  day,  and  returns  immediately  ;  on  the  whole 
island,  one  acre  in  area,  there  is  no  inhabitant.  The 
keeper  lives  in  the  light-house ;  he  keeps  it  in  order. 
During  the  day  he  gives  signals  by  displaying  flags  of 
various  colors  to  indicate  changes  of  the  barometer ;  in 
the  evening  he  lights  the  lantern.  This  would  be  no 
great  labor  were  it  not  that  to  reach  the  lantern  at  the 
top  of  the  tower  he  must  pass  over  more  than  four 
hundred  steep  and  very  high  steps ;  sometimes  he  must 
make  this  journey  repeatedly  during  the  day.  In  general 
it  is  the  life  of  a  monk,  and  indeed  more  than  that,  —  the 
life  of  a  hermit.  It  was  not  wonderful,  therefore,  that 
Mr.  Isaac  Falconbridge  was  in  no  small  anxiety  as  to 
where  he  should  find  a  permanent  successor  to  the  recent 
keeper ;  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  his  joy  when  a  suc- 
cessor announced  himself  most  unexpectedly  on  that  very 
day.  He  was  a  man  already  old,  seventy  years  or  more, 
but  fresh,  erect,  with  the  movements  and  bearing  of  a 
soldier.  His  hair  was  perfectly  white,  his  face  as  dark 
as  that  of  a  Creole ;  but  judging  from  his  blue  eyes,  he 
did  not  belong  to  a  Southern  people.  His  face  was 
somewhat  downcast  and  sad,  but  honest.  At  the  first 
glance  he  pleased  Falconbridge.  It  remained  only  to 
examine  him.  Therefore  the  following  conversation 
began,  — 

"  Where  are  you  from  ? " 

»'  I  am  a  Pole." 


LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL.    443 

"  Where  have  you  worked  up  to  this  time  ? " 

"  In  one  place  and  another." 

"  A  light-house  keeper  should  like  to  stay  in  one  place." 

•'  I  need  rest." 

"  Have  you  served  ?  Have  you  testimonials  of  honor- 
able government  service  ?  " 

The  old  man  drew  from  his  bosom  a  piece  of  faded 
silk  resembling  a  strip  of  an  old  flag,  unwound  it,  and 
said,  — 

"  Here  are  the  testimonials.  I  received  this  cross  in 
1830.  This  second  one  is  Spanish,  from  the  CarlistWar; 
the  third  is  the  French  legion  ;  the  fourth  I  received  in 
Hungary.  Afterward  I  fought  in  the  States  against  the 
South ;  there  they  do  not  give  crosses." 

Falconbridge  took  the  paper  and  began  to  read. 

"  H'm  !  Skavinski  ?  Is  that  your  name  ?  H'm  !  Two 
flags  captured  in  a  bayonet  attack.  You  were  a  gallant 
soldier." 

"  I  am  able  to  be  a  conscientious  light-house  keeper." 

"  It  is  necessary  to  ascend  the  tower  a  number  of  times 
daily.  Have  you  sound  legs  ? " 

"  I  crossed  the  plains  on  foot."  (The  immense  prairies 
between  the  East  and  California  are  called  "  the  plains.") 

"  Do  you  know  sea  service  ? " 

"  I  served  three  years  on  a  whaler." 

"  You  have  tried  various  occupations." 

"  The  only  one  I  have  not  known  is  quiet." 

"  Why  is  that  ? " 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Such  is  my 
fate." 

"  Still  you  seem  to  me  too  old  for  a  light-house  keeper." 

"  Sir,"  exclaimed  the  candidate  suddenly,  in  a  voice  of 
emotion,  "  I  am  greatly  wearied,  knocked  about.  I  have 
passed  through  much,  as  you  see.  This  place  is  one 


444    LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER  OF   ASPINWALL. 

of  those  which  I  have  wished  for  most  ardently.  I  am 
old,  I  need  rest.  I  need  to  say  to  myself,  '  Here  you  will 
remain ;  this  is  your  port.'  Ah,  sir,  this  depends  now  on 
you  alone.  Another  time  perhaps  such  a  place  will  not 
offer  itself.  What  luck  that  I  was  in  Panama  !  I  en- 
treat you  —  as  God  is  dear  to  me,  I  am  like  a  ship  which 
if  it  misses  the  harbor  will  be  lost.  If  you  wish  to  make 
an  old  man  happy  —  I  swear  to  you  that  I  am  honest, 
but  —  I  have  enough  of  this  wandering." 

The  blue  eyes  of  the  old  man  expressed  such  earnest 
entreaty  that  Falconbridge,  who  had  a  good,  simple  heart, 
was  touched. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  take  you.  You  are  light-house 
keeper." 

The  old  man's  face  gleamed  with  inexpressible  joy. 

"  I  thank  you." 

"  Can  you  go  to  the  tower  to-day  ? " 

"  I  can." 

"  Then  good-by.  Another  word,  for  any  failure  in  ser- 
vice you  will  be  dismissed." 

"All  right." 

That  same  evening,  when  the  sun  had  descended  on 
the  other  side  of  the  isthmus,  and  a  day  of  sunshine  was 
followed  by  a  night  without  twilight,  the  new  keeper  was 
in  his  place  evidently,  for  the  light-house  was  casting  its 
bright  rays  on  the  water  as  usual.  The  night  was  per- 
fectly calm,  silent,  genuinely  tropical,  filled  with  a  trans- 
parent haze,  forming  around  the  moon  a  great  colored 
rainbow  with  soft,  unbroken  edges ;  the  sea  was  moving 
only  because  the  tide  raised  it.  Skavinski  on  the  balcony 
seemed  from  below  like  a  small  black  point.  He  tried  to 
collect  his  thoughts,  and  take  in  his  new  position ;  but 
his  mind  was  too  much  under  pressure  to  move  with  reg- 
ularity. He  felt  somewhat  as  a  hunted  beast  feels  when 


LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL.    445 

at  last  it  has  found  refuge  from  pursuit  on  some  inac- 
cessible rock  or  in  a  cave.  An  hour  of  quiet  had  come  to 
him  finally ;  the  feeling  of  safety  filled  his  soul  with  a 
certain  unspeakable  bliss.  Now  on  that  rock  he  can 
simply  laugh  at  his  previous  wanderings,  his  misfortunes 
and  failures.  He  was  in  truth  like  a  ship  whose  masts, 
ropes,  and  sails  had  been  broken  and  rent  by  a  tempest, 
and  cast  from  the  clouds  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  —  a 
ship  on  which  the  tempest  had  hurled  waves  and  spat 
foam,  but  which  had  still  wound  its  way  to  the  harbor. 
The  pictures  of  that  storm  passed  through  his  mind 
quickly  as  he  compared  it  with  the  calm  future  now 
beginning.  A  part  of  his  wonderful  adventures  he  had 
related  to  Falconbriclge ;  he  had  not  mentioned,  however, 
thousands  of  other  incidents.  It  had  been  his  misfortune 
that  as  often  as  he  pitched  his  tent  and  fixed  his  fire- 
place to  settle  down  permanently,  some  wind  tore  out  his 
tent-stakes,  whirled  away  the  fire,  and  bore  him  on  toward 
destruction.  Looking  now  from  the  balcony  of  the  tower 
at  the  illuminated  waves,  he  remembered  everything 
through  which  he  had  passed.  He  had  campaigned  in 
the  four  parts  of  the  world,  and  in  wandering  had  tried 
almost  every  occupation.  Labor-loving  and  honest,  he 
had  earned  money  more  than  once,  but  had  always  lost 
it  in  spite  of  every  prevision  and  the  utmost  caution.  He 
had  been  a  gold-miner  in  Australia,  a  diamond-digger  in 
Africa,  a  rifleman  in  public  service  in  the  East  Indies.  He 
had  established  a  ranch  in  California, — the  drought  ruined 
him  ;  he  had  tried  trading  with  wild  tribes  in  the  interior 
of  Brazil,  —  his  raft  was  wrecked  on  the  Amazon  ;  he  him- 
self alone,  weaponless,  and  nearly  naked,  wandered  in  the 
forest  for  many  weeks,  living  on  wild  fruits,  exposed  every 
moment  to  death  from  the  jaws  of  wild  beasts.  He  estab- 
lished a  forge  in  Helena,  Arkansas,  and  that  was  burned 


446    LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER   OF   ASPINWALL. 

in  a  great  fire  which  consumed  the  whole  town.  Next 
he  fell  into  the  hands  of  Indians  in  the  Eocky  Moun- 
tains, and  only  through  a  miracle  was  he  saved  by  Cana- 
dian trappers.  Then  he  served  as  a  sailor  on  a  vessel 
running  between  Bahia  and  Bordeaux,  and  as  harpooner 
on  a  whaling-ship  ;  both  vessels  were  wrecked.  He  had 
a  cigar  factory  in  Havana,  and  was  robbed  by  his  partner 
while  he  himself  was  lying  sick  with  the  vomito.  At 
last  he  came  to  Aspinwall,  and  there  was  to  be  the  end  of 
his  failures,  —  for  what  could  reach  him  now  on  that  rocky 
island  ?  Neither  water  nor  fire  nor  men.  But  from  men 
Skavinski  had  not  suffered  much ;  he  had  met  good  men 
oftener  than  bad  ones. 

But  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  four  elements  were 
persecuting  him.  Those  who  knew  him  said  that  he  had  no 
luck,  and  with  that  they  explained  everything.  He  him- 
self became  somewhat  of  a  monomaniac.  He  believed 
that  some  mighty  and  vengeful  hand  was  pursuing  him 
everywhere,  on  all  lands  and  waters.  He  did  not  like, 
however,  to  speak  of  this ;  only  at  times,  when  some  one 
asked  him  whose  hand  that  could  be,  he  pointed  mysteri- 
ously to  the  Polar  Star,  and  said,  "  It  comes  from  that 
place."  In  reality  his  failures  were  so  continuous  that 
they  were  wonderful,  and  might  easily  drive  a  nail  into 
the  head,  especially  of  the  man  who  had  experienced 
them.  But  Skavinski  had  the  patience  of  an  Indian,  and 
that  great  calm  power  of  resistance  which  comes  from 
truth  of  heart.  He  had  received  once  in  Hungary  a 
number  of  bayonet  thrusts  because  he  would  not  grasp  at 
a  stirrup  which  was  shown  as  means  of  salvation  to  him, 
and  implore  quarter.  In  like  manner  he  did  not  bend 
to  misfortune.  He  crept  up  against  the  mountain  as  in- 
dustriously as  an  ant.  Pushed  down  a  hundred  times,  he 
began  his  journey  calmly  for  the  hundred  and  first  time. 


LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER  OF   ASPINWALL.    447 

He  was  in  his  way  a  most  peculiar  original.  This  old 
soldier,  tempered  God  knows  in  how  many  fires,  hardened 
in  suffering,  hammered  and  forged,  had  the  heart  of  a 
child.  In  time  of  the  epidemic  in  Cuba,  the  vomito 
attacked  him  because  he  had  given  to  the  sick  all  his 
quinine,  of  which  he  had  a  considerable  supply,  and  left 
not  a  grain  to  himself. 

There  had  been  in  him  also  this  wonderful  quality,  — 
that  after  so  many  disappointments  he  was  ever  full  of 
confidence,  and  did  not  lose  hope  that  all  would  be  well 
yet.  In  winter  he  grew  lively,  and  foretold  great  events. 
He  waited  for  these  events  with  impatience,  and  lived 
through  whole  summers  with  the  thought  of  them.  But 
the  winters  passed  one  after  another,  and  Skavinski  lived 
only  to  this, —  that  they  whitened  his  head.  At  last  he 
grew  old,  began  to  lose  energy ;  his  endurance  was  becom- 
ing more  and  more  like  resignation,  his  former  calmness 
was  fending  toward  supersensitiveness,  and  that  tempered 
soldier  was  degenerating  into  a  man  ready  to  shed  tears 
for  any  cause.  Besides  this,  from  time  to  time  he  was 
weighed  down  by  a  terrible  homesickness  which  was 
roused  by  any  circumstance,  —  the  sight  of  swallows,  gray 
birds  like  sparrows,  snow  on  the  mountains,  or  melancholy 
music  like  that  heard  on  a  time.  Finally,  there  was  one  idea 
which  mastered  him,  —  the  idea  of  rest.  It  mastered  the 
old  man  thoroughly,  and  swallowed  all  other  hopes  and 
desires.  This  ceaseless  wanderer  could  not  imagine  any- 
thing more  to  be  longed  for,  anything  more  precious,  than 
a  quiet  corner  in  which  to  rest,  and  wait  for  the  end  in 
silence.  Perhaps  specially  because  some  whim  of  fate 
had  so  hurried  him  over  all  seas  and  lands  that  he  could 
hardly  catch  breath,  did  he  imagine  that  the  highest 
human  happiness  was  simply  not  to  wander.  It  is  true 
that  such  modest  happiness  was  due  to  him ;  but  he  was 


448    LIGHT-HOUSE    KEEPER   OF   ASPINWALL. 

so  accustomed  to  disappointments  that  he  thought  of  rest 
as  people  in  general  think  of  a  thing  which  surpasses 
attainment.  He  dared  not  hope  for  it.  Meanwhile,  un- 
expectedly in  the  course  of  twelve  hours  he  had  gained  a 
position  which  was  as  if  chosen  for  him  out  of  all  in  the 
world.  We  are  not  to  wonder,  then,  that  when  he  lighted 
his  lantern  in  the  evening  he  was  as  if  dazed,  —  that 
he  asked  himself  if  that  was  reality,  and  dared  not 
answer  that  it  was.  But  at  the  same  time  reality  con- 
vinced him  with  incontrovertible  proofs;  hence  hours 
one  after  another  passed  while  he  was  on  the  balcony. 
He  gazed,  and  convinced  himself.  It  might  seem  that  he 
was  looking  at  the  sea  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  The 
lens  of  the  lantern  cast  into  the  darkness  an  enormous 
triangle  of  light,  beyond  which  the  eye  of  the  old  man 
was  lost  in  the  black  distance  completely,  in  a  distance 
mysterious  and  awful.  But  that  distance  seemed  to  run 
toward  the  light.  The  long  waves  following  one  another 
rolled  out  of  the  darkness,  and  went  bellowing  toward 
the  base  of  the  island  ;  and  then  their  foaming  backs 
were  visible,  shining  rose-colored  in  the  light  of  the  lan- 
tern. The  incoming  tide  swelled  more  and  more,  and 
covered  the  sandy  bars.  The  mysterious  speech  of  the 
ocean  came  with  a  fulness  more  powerful  and  louder,  at 
one  time  like  the  thunder  of  cannon,  at  another  like  the 
roar  of  great  forests,  at  another  like  the  distant  dull 
sound  of  the  voices  of  people.  At  moments  it  was  quiet; 
then  to  the  ears  of  the  old  man  came  some  great  sigh, 
then  a  kind  of  sobbing,  and  again  threatening  outbursts. 
At  last  the  wind  bore  away  the  haze,  but  brought  black, 
broken  clouds,  which  hid  the  moon.  From  the  west  it 
began  to  blow  more  and  more ;  the  waves  sprang  with 
rage  against  the  rock  of  the  light-house,  licking  with  foam 
the  foundation  walls.  In  the  distance  a  storm  was  be- 


LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF   ASPINWALL.    449 

ginning  to  bellow.  On  the  dark,  disturbed  expanse  certain 
green  lanterns  gleamed  from  the  masts  of  ships.  These 
green  points  rose  high  and  then  sank ;  now  they  swayed 
to  the  right,  and  now  to  the  left.  Skavinski  descended 
to  his  room.  The  storm  began  to  howl.  Outside  people 
on  those  ships  were  struggling  with  night,  with  darkness, 
with  waves ;  but  inside  the  tower  it  was  still  and  calm. 
Even  the  sounds  of  the  storm  hardly  came  through  the 
thick  walls,  and  only  the  measured  tick-tack  of  the  clock 
lulled  the  wearied  old  man  to  his  slumber. 


II. 

HOURS,  days,  and  weeks  passed.  Sailors  assert  that 
at  times  when  the  sea  is  greatly  roused,  something  from 
out  the  midst  of  night  and  darkness  calls  them  by  name. 
If  the  infinity  of  the  sea  may  call  out  thus,  perhaps 
when  a  man  is  growing  old,  calls  come  to  him,  too,  from 
another  infinity  still  darker  and  more  deeply  mysterious ; 
and  the  more  he  is  wearied  by  life  the  dearer  become 
those  calls  to  him.  But  to  hear  them  quiet  is  needed. 
Besides,  old  age  loves  to  seclude  itself  as  if  with  a  fore- 
knowledge of  the  grave.  The  light-house  had  become  for 
Skavinski  such  a  half  grave.  Nothing  is  more  monoto- 
nous than  life  on  a  beacon-tower.  If  young  people  consent 
to  take  up  this  service  they  leave  it  soon  after.  Light- 
house keepers  are  generally  men  not  young,  gloomy,  and 
confined  to  themselves.  If  by  chance  one  of  them  leaves 
his  light-house  and  goes  among  men,  he  walks  in  the 
midst  of  them  like  a  person  roused  from  deep  slumber. 
On  the  tower  there  is  a  lack  of  minute  impressions  which 
in  ordinary  life  teach  men  to  adapt  themselves  to  every- 
thing. All  that  a  light-house  keeper  comes  in  contact 

29 


450    LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL. 

with  is  gigantic,  and  devoid  of  forms  sharply  outlined. 
The  sky  is  one  whole,  the  water  another ;  and  between 
those  two  infinities  the  soul  of  man  is  in  loneliness.  That 
is  a  life  in  which  thought  is  continual  meditation,  and 
out  of  that  meditation  nothing  rouses  the  keeper,  not  even 
his  work.  Day  is  like  day  as  two  beads  in  a  rosary,  un- 
less changes  of  weather  form  the  only  variety.  But 
Skavinski  felt  more  happiness  than  ever  in  life  before. 
He  rose  with  the  dawn,  took  his  breakfast,  polished  the 
lens,  and  then  sitting  on  the  balcony  gazed  into  the  dis- 
tance of  the  water ;  and  his  eyes  were  never  sated  with 
the  pictures  which  he  saw  before  him.  On  the  enormous 
turquoise  ground  of  the  ocean  were  to  be  seen  generally 
flocks  of  swollen  sails  gleaming  in  the  rays  of  the  sun 
with  such  brightness  that  the  eyes  blinked  before  the  ex- 
cess of  light.  Sometimes  ships,  favored  by  the  so-called 
trade  winds,  went  in  an  extended  line  one  after  another, 
like  a  chain  of  sea-mews  or  albatrosses.  The  red  casks  in- 
dicating the  channel  swayed  on  the  light  wave  with  gentle 
movement.  Among  the  sails  appeared  every  afternoon 
gigantic  grayish  feather-like  plumes  of  smoke.  That  was 
a  steamer  from  New  York  which  brought  passengers 
and  goods  to  Aspinwall,  drawing  behind  it  a  frothy  path 
of  foam.  On  the  other  side  of  the  balcony  Skavinski  saw 
as  if  on  his  palm  Aspinwall  and  its  busy  harbor,  and  in 
it  a  forest  of  masts,  boats,  and  craft ;  a  little  farther  white 
houses  and  the  steeples  of  the  town.  From  the  height  of 
his  tower  the  small  houses  were  like  the  nests  of  sea- 
mews,  the  boats  were  like  beetles,  and  the  people  moved 
around  like  small  points  on  the  white  stone  boulevard. 
From  early  morning  a  light  eastern  breeze  brought  a  con- 
fused hum  of  human  life,  above  which  predominated  the 
whistle  of  steamers.  In  the  afternoon  six  o'clock  came ; 
the  movement  in  the  harbor  began  to  cease ;  the  mews 


LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL.    451 

hid  themselves  in  the  rents  of  the  cliffs ;  the  waves  grew 
feeble  and  became  in  some  sort  lazy ;  and  then  on  the 
land,  on  the  sea,  and  on  the  tower  came  a  time  of  still- 
ness unbroken  by  anything.  The  yellow  sands  from 
which  the  waves  had  fallen  back  glittered  like  golden 
spots  on  the  expanse  of  waters ;  the  body  of  the  tower 
was  outlined  definitely  in  blue.  Floods  of  sunbeams  were 
poured  from  the  sky  on  the  water  and  the  sands  and  the 
cliff.  At  that  time  a  certain  lassitude  full  of  sweetness 
seized  the  old  man.  He  felt  that  the  rest  which  he  was 
enjoying  was  excellent;  and  when  he  thought  that  it 
would  be  continuous  nothing  was  lacking  him. 

Skavinski  was  intoxicated  with  his  own  happiness ; 
and  since  a  man  adapts  himself  easily  to  improved  con- 
ditions, he  gained  faith  and  confidence  gradually ;  for  he 
thought  that  if  men  built  houses  for  invalids,  why  should 
not  God  gather  up  at  last  his  own  invalids  ?  Time 
passed,  and  confirmed  him  in  this  conviction.  The  old 
man  grew  accustomed  to  his  tower,  to  the  lantern,  to  the 
rock,  to  the  sandbars,  to  solitude.  He  grew  accustomed 
also  to  the  sea-mews  which  hatched  in  the  crevices  of  the 
rock  and  in  the  evening  held  meetings  on  the  roof  of  the 
light-house.  Skavinski  threw  to  them  generally  the  rem- 
nants of  his  food ;  and  soon  they  grew  tame,  and  after- 
ward when  he  fed  them  a  real  storm  of  white  wings 
encircled  him,  and  the  old  man  went  among  the  birds 
like  a  shepherd  among  sheep.  When  the  tide  ebbed  he 
went  to  the  low  sand-banks,  on  which  he  collected  savory 
periwinkles  and  beautiful  pearl  shells  of  the  nautilus, 
which  receding  waves  had  left  on  the  sand.  In  the  night 
by  the  moonlight  and  the  tower  he  went  to  catch  fish, 
which  frequented  the  windings  of  the  cliff  in  myriads. 
At  last  he  was  in  love  with  his  rocks  and  his  treeless 
little  island,  grown  over  only  with  small  thick  plants  exud- 


452    LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL. 

ing  sticky  resin.  The  distant  views  repaid  him  for  the 
poverty  of  the  island,  however.  During  afternoon  hours, 
when  the  air  became  very  clear  he  could  see  the  whole 
isthmus  covered  with  the  richest  vegetation.  It  seemed 
to  Skavinski  at  such  times  that  he  saw  one  gigantic  gar- 
den, —  bunches  of  cocoa,  and  enormous  musa,  combined 
as  it  were  in  luxurious  tufted  bouquets,  right  there  behind 
the  houses  of  Aspinwall.  Farther  on,  between  Aspinwall 
and  Panama,  was  a  great  forest  over  which  every  morn- 
ing and  evening  hung  a  reddish  haze  of  exhalations,  —  a 
real  tropical  forest  with  its  feet  in  stagnant  water,  inter- 
laced with  lianas  and  filled  with  the  sound  of  one  sea  of 
gigantic  orchids,  palms,  milk-trees,  iron-trees,  gum-trees. 

Through  his  field-glass  the  old  man  could  see  not  only 
trees  and  the  broad  leaves  of  bananas,  but  even  legions 
of  monkeys  and  great  marabous  and  flocks  of  parrots, 
rising  at  times  like  a  rainbow  cloud  over  the  forest. 
Skavinski  knew  such  forests  well,  for  after  being  wrecked 
on  the  Amazon  he  had  wandered  whole  weeks  among 
similar  arches  and  thickets.  He  had  seen  how  many 
dangers  and  deaths  lie  concealed  under  those  marvellous 
and  smiling  exteriors.  During  the  nights  which  he  had 
spent  in  them  he  heard  close  at  hand  the  sepulchral 
voices  of  howling  monkeys  and  the  roaring  of  the  jaguars  ; 
he  saw  gigantic  serpents  coiled  like  lianas  on  trees ;  he 
knew  those  slumbering  forest  lakes  full  of  torpedo-fish 
and  swarming  with  crocodiles  ;  he  knew  under  what  a 
yoke  man  lives  in  those  unexplored  wildernesses  in  which 
are  single  leaves  tenfold  greater  in  size  than  a  man,  — 
wildernesses  swarming  with  blood-drinking  mosquitoes, 
tree-leeches,  and  immense  poisonous  spiders.  He  had  ex- 
perienced that  forest  life  himself,  had  witnessed  it,  had 
passed  through  it ;  therefore  it  gave  him  the  greater 
enjoyment  to  look  from  his  height  and  gaze  on  those 


LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL.    453 

matos,  admire  their  beauty,  and  be  guarded  from  their 
treachery.  His  tower  preserved  him  from  every  evil. 
He  left  it  only  for  a  few  hours  on  Sunday.  He  put 
on  then  his  blue  keeper's  coat  with  silver  buttons,  and 
hung  his  crosses  on  his  breast.  His  milk-white  head 
was  raised  with  a  certain  pride  when  he  heard  at  the 
door,  while  entering  the  church,  the  Creoles  say  among 
themselves,  "  We  have  an  honorable  light-house  keeper 
and  not  a  heretic,  though  he  is  a  Yankee."  But  he  re- 
turned straightway  after  Mass  to  his  island,  and  returned 
happy,  for  still  he  distrusted  the  mainland.  On  Sunday 
also  he  read  the  Spanish  newspaper  which  he  bought 
in  the  town,  or  the  "  New  York  Herald,"  which  he 
borrowed  from  Falconbridge  ;  and  he  sought  in  it  Euro- 
pean news  eagerly.  The  poor  old  heart  on  that  light- 
house tower  and  in  another  hemisphere  was  beating  yet 
for  its  birthplace.  At  times  too,  when  the  boat  brought 
his  daily  supplies  and  water  to  the  island,  he  went  down 
from  the  tower  to  talk  with  Johnson,  the  guard.  But 
after  a  while  he  seemed  to  grow  shy.  He  ceased  to  go  to 
the  town  to  read  the  papers  and  to  go  down  to  talk 
politics  with  Johnson.  Whole  weeks  passed  in  this  way, 
so  that  no  one  saw  him  and  he  saw  no  one.  The  only 
signs  that  the  old  man  was  living  were  the  disappearance 
of  the  provisions  left  on  shore,  and  the  light  of  the  lan- 
tern kindled  every  evening  with  the  same  regularity  with 
which  the  sun  rose  in  the  morning  from  the  waters  of 
those  regions.  Evidently  the  old  man  had  become  in- 
different to  the  world.  Homesickness  was  not  the  cause, 
but  just  this,  —  that  even  homesickness  had  passed  into 
resignation.  The  whole  world  began  now  and  ended  for 
Skavinski  on  his  island.  He  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  thought  that  he  would  not  leave  the  tower  till  death, 
and  he  simply  forgot  that  there  was  anything  else  in  the 


454    LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER   OF   ASPINWALL. 

world  aside  from  it.  Moreover,  he  had  become  a  mystic; 
his  mild  blue  eyes  began  to  stare  like  the  eyes  of  a  child, 
and  were  as  if  fixed  on  something  at  a  distance.  In 
presence  of  a  surrounding  uncommonly  simple  and  great, 
the  old  man  was  losing  the  feeling  of  personality ;  he  was 
ceasing  to  exist  as  an  individual,  was  becoming  merged 
more  and  more  into  that  which  inclosed  him.  He  did 
not  understand  anything  beyond  his  environment;  he 
felt  only  unconsciously.  At  last  it  seems  to  him  that 
the  heavens,  the  water,  his  rock,  the  tower,  the  golden 
sand-banks,  and  the  swollen  sails,  the  sea-mews,  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  tide,  —  all  form  one  mighty  unity,  one 
enormous  mysterious  soul ;  that  he  is  sinking  in  that 
mystery,  and  feels  that  soul  which  lives  and  lulls  itself. 
He  sinks  and  is  rocked,  forgets  himself;  and  in  that 
narrowing  of  his  own  individual  existence,  in  that  half- 
waking,  half-sleeping,  he  has  discovered  a  rest  so  great 
that  it  almost  resembles  half-death. 


III. 

BUT  the  awakening  came. 

On  a  certain  day,  when  the  boat  brought  water  and  a 
supply  of  provisions,  Skavinski  came  down  an  hour  later 
from  the  tower,  and  saw  that  besides  the  usual  cargo 
there  was  an  additional  package.  On  the  outside  of  this 
package  were  postage  stamps  of  the  United  States,  and 
the  address,  "  Skavinski,  Esq.,"  written  on  coarse  canvas. 

The  old  man  with  aroused  curiosity  cut  the  canvas,  and 
saw  books ;  he  took  one  in  his  hand,  looked  at  it,  and  put 
it  back  ;  thereupon  his  hands  began  to  tremble  greatly. 
He  covered  his  eyes  as  if  he  did  not  believe  them;  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  dreaming.  The  book  was 


LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER  OF   ASPINWALL.    455 

Polish,  —  what  did  that  mean  ?  Who  could  have  sent 
the  book  ?  Clearly,  he  did  not  remember  at  the  first 
moment  that  in  the  beginning  of  his  light-house  career  he 
had  read  in  the  "  Herald,"  borrowed  from  the  consul,  of 
the  formation  of  a  Polish  society  in  New  York,  and  had 
sent  at  once  to  that  society  half  his  month's  salary,  for 
which  he  had,  moreover,  no  use  on  the  tower.  The 
society  had  sent  him  the  books  with  thanks.  The  books 
came  in  the  natural  way;  but  at  the  first  moment  the 
old  man  could  not  seize  those  thoughts.  Polish  books  in 
Aspinwall,  on  his  tower,  amid  his  solitude,  —  that  was 
for  him  something  uncommon,  a  certain  breath  from  past 
times,  a  species  of  miracle.  Now  it  seemed  to  him,  as  to 
those  sailors  in  the  night,  that  something  was  calling  him 
by  name  with  a  voice  greatly  beloved  and  nearly  for- 
gotten. He  sat  for  a  while  with  closed  eyes,  and  was 
almost  certain  that,  when  he  opened  them,  the  dream 
would  be  gone. 

The  package,  cut  open,  lay  before  him,  shone  upon 
clearly  by  the  afternoon  sun,  and  on  it  was  an  open  book. 
When  the  old  man  stretched  his  hand  toward  it  again,  he 
heard  in  the  stillness  the  beating  of  his  own  heart.  He 
looked  ;  it  was  poetry.  On  the  outside  stood  printed  in 
great  letters  the  title,  underneath  the  name  of  the 
author.  The  name  was  not  strange  to  Skavinski ;  he  saw 
that  it  belonged  to  the  famous  poet,1  whose  productions 
he  had  read  in  1830  in  Paris.  Afterward  when  cam- 
paigning in  Algiers  and  Spain,  he  had  heard  from  his 
countrymen  of  the  growing  fame  of  the  great  seer ;  but  he 
was  so  accustomed  to  the  musket  at  that  time  that  he 
took  no  book  in  hand.  In  1849  he  went  to  America,  and 
in  the  adventurous  life  which  he  led,  he  hardly  ever  met 
a  Pole,  and  never  a  Polish  book.  With  the  greater 

1  Mickiewicz  (pronounced  Mitskevich),  the  greatest  poet  of  Poland. 


456    LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL. 

eagerness,  therefore,  and  with  a  livelier  beating  of  the 
heart,  did  he  turn  to  the  title-page.  It  seemed  to  him 
then  that  on  his  lonely  rock  some  solemnity  was  about  to 
take  place.  Indeed,  it  was  a  moment  of  great  calm  anc. 
silence.  The  clocks  of  Aspinwall  were  striking  five  iv 
the  afternoon.  Not  a  cloud  darkened  the  clear  sky  ;  only 
a  few  sea-mews  were  sailing  through  the  air.  The  ocean 
was  as  if  cradled  to  sleep.  The  waves  on  the  shore 
stammered  quietly,  spreading  softly  on  the  sand.  In  the 
distance  the  white  houses  of  Aspinwall,  and  the  wonder- 
ful groups  of  palm,  were  smiling.  In  truth,  there  was 
something  there  solemn,  calm,  and  full  of  dignity.  Sud- 
denly in  the  midst  of  that  calm  of  Nature  was  heard  the 
trembling  voice  of  the  old  man,  who  read  aloud  as  if  to 
understand  himself  better,  — 

"  Thou  art  like  health,  O  Litva,  my  birth-land  ! l 

How  much  we  should  prize  thee  he  only  can  know  who  has  lost 

thee. 

Thy  beauty  in  perfect  adornment  this  day 
I  see  and  describe,  because  I  yearn  for  thee." 

His  voice  failed  Skavinski.  The  letters  began  to  dance 
before  his  eyes ;  something  broke  in  his  breast,  and  went 
like  a  wave  from  his  heart  higher  and  higher,  choking 
his  voice  and  pressing  his  throat.  A  moment  more  he 
controlled  himself,  and  read  further,  — 

"  O  Holy  Lady,  who  guardest  bright  Chenstohova, 
Who  shinest  in  Ostrobrama  and  preservest 
The  castle  town  Novgrodek  with  its  trusty  people, 
As  Thou  didst  give  me  back  to  health  in  childhood, 
When  by  my  weeping  mother  placed  beneath  Thy  care 
I  raised  my  lifeless  eyelids  upward, 
And  straightway  walked  unto  Thy  holy  threshold, 
To  thank  God  for  the  life  restored  me,  — 
So  by  a  wonder  now  restore  us  to  the  bosom  of  our  birthplace." 
1  Lithuania. 


LIGHT-HOUSE  KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL.    457 

The  swollen  wave  broke  through  the  restraint  of  his 
will.  The  old  man  sobbed,  and  threw  himself  on  the 
ground ;  his  milk-white  hair  was  mingled  with  the  sand 
of  the  sea.  Forty  years  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  his 
country,  and  God  knows  how  many  since  he  heard  his 
native  speech ;  and  now  that  speech  had  come  to  him 
itself,  —  it  had  sailed  to  him  over  the  ocean,  and  found 
him  in  solitude  on  another  hemisphere,  —  it  so  loved,  so 
dear,  so  beautiful !  In  the  sobbing  which  shook  him 
there  was  no  pain,  —  only  a  suddenly  aroused  immense 
love,  in  the  presence  of  which  other  things  are  as  no'th- 
ing.  With  that  great  weeping  he  had  simply  implored 
forgiveness  of  the  beloved  one,  set  aside  because  he  had 
grown  so  old,  had  become  so  accustomed  to  his  solitary 
rock,  and  had  so  forgotten  it  that  in  him  even  longing 
had  begun  to  disappear.  But  now  it  returned  as  if  by  a 
miracle ;  therefore  the  heart  leaped  in  him. 

Moments  vanished  one  after  another  ;  he  lay  there 
continually.  The  mews  flew  over  the  light-house,  crying 
as  if  alarmed  for  their  old  friend.  The  hour  in  which  he 
fed  them  with  the  remnants  of  his  food  had  come ;  there- 
fore, some  of  them  flew  down  from  the  light-house  to 
him  ;  then  more  and  more  came,  and  began  to  pick  and 
to  shake  their  wings  over  his  head.  The  sound  of  the 
wings  roused  him.  He  had  wept  his  fill,  and  had  now  a 
certain  calm  and  brightness  ;  but  his  eyes  were  as  if 
inspired.  He  gave  unwittingly  all  his  provisions  to  the 
birds,  which  rushed  at  him  with  an  uproar,  and  he  him- 
self took  the  book  again.  The  sun  had  gone  already  be- 
hind the  gardens  and  the  forest  of  Panama,  and  was 
going  slowly  beyond  the  isthmus  to  the  other  ocean ;  but 
the  Atlantic  was  full  of  light  yet ;  in  the  open  air  there 
was  still  perfect  vision  ;  therefore,  he  read  further : 

"Now  bear  my  longing  soul  to  those  forest  slopes,  to  those  green 
meadows." 


458    LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER   OF   ASPINWALL. 

At  last  the  dusk  obliterates  the  letters  on  the  white 
paper,  —  the  dusk  short  as  a  twinkle.  The  old  man  rested 
his  head  011  the  rock,  and  closed  his  eyes.  Then  "  She 
who  defends  bright  Chenstohova"  took  his  soul,  and 
transported  it  to  "  those  fields  colored  by  various  grain." 
On  the  sky  were  burning  yet  those  long  stripes,  red  and 
golden,  and  on  those  brightnesses  he  was  flying  to  be- 
loved regions.  The  pine-woods  were  sounding  in  his 
ears ;  the  streams  of  his  native  place  were  murmuring. 
He  saw  everything  as  it  was;  everything  asked  him, 
"  Dost  remember  ? "  He  remembers  !  he  sees  broad 
fields,  between  the  fields,  woods  .and  villages.  It  is 
night  now.  At  this  hour  his  lantern  usually  illuminates 
the  darkness  of  the  sea ;  but  now  he  is  in  his  native 
village.  His  old  head  has  dropped  on  his  breast,  and  he 
is  dreaming.  Pictures  are  passing  before  his  eyes  quickly, 
and  a  little  disorderly.  He  does  not  see  the  house  in 
which  he  was  born,  for  war  had  destroyed  it ;  he  does 
not  see  his  father  and  mother,  for  they  died  when  he 
was  a  child ;  but  still  the  village  is  as  if  he  had  left  it 
yesterday,  —  the  line  of  cottages  with  lights  in  the  win- 
dows, the  mound,  the  mill,  the  two  ponds  opposite  each 
other,  and  thundering  the  whole  night  with  a  chorus  of 
frogs.  Once  he  had  been  on  guard  in  that  village  all  night ; 
now  that  past  stood  before  him  at  once  in  a  series  of  views. 
He  is  an  Ulan  again,  and  he  stands  there  on  guard ;  at  a 
distance  is  the  public  house;  he  looks  with  swimming 
eyes.  There  is  thundering  and  singing  and  shouting 
amid  the  silence  of  the  night  with  voices  of  fiddles  and 
bass-viols  "U-ha!  U-ha!"  Then  the  Ulans  knock  out 
fire  with  their  horseshoes,  and  it  is  wearisome  for  him 
there  on  his  horse.  The  hours  drag  on  slowly ;  at  last 
the  lights  are  quenched ;  now  as  far  as  the  eye  reaches 
there  is  mist,  and  mist  impenetrable ;  now  the  fog  rises, 


LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER  OF  ASPINWALL.    459 

evidently  from  the  fields,  and  embraces  the  whole  world 
with  a  whitish  cloud.  You  would  say,  a  perfect  ocean. 
But  that  is  fields ;  soon  the  land-rail  will  be  heard  in 
the  darkness,  and  bitterns  will  call  from  the  reeds.  The 
night  is  calm  and  cool,  a  true  Polish  night.  In  the  dis- 
tance the  pine  wood  is  sounding  without  wind,  like  the 
roll  of  the  sea.  Soon  dawn  will  whiten  the  East.  In 
fact,  the  cocks  are  beginning  to  crow  behind  the  hedges. 
One  answers  another  from  cottage  to  cottage ;  the  storks 
are  screaming  somewhere  on  high.  The  Ulan  feels  well 
and  bright.  Some  one  had  spoken  of  a  battle  to-morrow. 
Hei  1  that  will  go  on,  like  all  others,  with  shouting,  with 
fluttering  of  pennons.  The  young  blood  is  playing  like  a 
trumpet,  though  the  night  cools  it.  But  day  is  dawning. 
Already  night  is  growing  pale ;  out  of  the  shadows  come 
forests,  the  thicket,  a  row  of  cottages,  the  mill,  the  pop- 
lars. The  well  is  squeaking  like  a  metal  banner  on  a 
tower.  What  a  beloved  land,  beautiful  in  the  rosy 
gleams  of  the  morning !  Oh,  the  one  land,  the  one 
land! 

Quiet!  the  watchful  picket  hears  that  some  one  is 
approaching.  Of  course,  they  are  coming  to  relieve  the 
guard. 

Suddenly  some  voice  is  heard  above  Skavinski,  — 

"  Here,  old  man  I    Get  up !     What 's  the  matter  ? " 

The  old  man  opens  his  eyes,  and  looks  with  wonder  at 
the  person  standing  before  him.  The  remnants  of  the 
dream-visions  struggle  in  his  head  with  reality.  At  last 
the  visions  pale  and  vanish.  Before  him  stands  Johnson, 
the  harbor  guard. 

"  What 's  this  ? "  asked  Johnson  ;  "  are  you  sick  ? " 

"  No." 

"  You  did  n't  light  the  lantern.  You  must  leave  your 
place.  A  vessel  from  St.  Geroino  was  wrecked  on  the 


460    LIGHT-HOUSE   KEEPER  OF   ASPINWALL. 

bar.  It  is  lucky  that  no  one  was  drowned,  or  you  would 
go  to  trial.  Get  into  the  boat  with  me ;  you  '11  hear  the 
rest  at  the  Consulate." 

The  old  man  grew  pale ;  in  fact  he  had  not  lighted  the 
lantern  that  night. 

A  few  days  later  Skavinski  was  seen  on  the  deck  of  a 
steamer,  which  was  going  from  Aspinwall  to  New  York. 
The  poor  man  had  lost  his  place.  There  opened  before 
him  new  roads  of  wandering ;  the  wind  had  torn  that  leaf 
away  again  to  whirl  it  over  lands  and  seas,  to  sport  with 
it  till  satisfied.  The  old  man  had  failed  greatly  during 
those  few  days,  and  his  body  was  bent,  but  his  eyes  were 
gleaming.  On  his  new  road  of  life  he  held  at  his  breast 
a  book,  which  from  time  to  time  he  pressed  with  his 
hand  as  if  fearing  that  that  too  might  go  from  him. 


YAMYOL. 

A   VILLAGE   SKETCH. 


YAMYOL.1 
A  VILLAGE   SKETCH. 

IN  the  little  town  of  Lupiskory,  after  the  funeral  of 
widow  Kaliksta,  there  were  vespers,  and  after  ves- 
pers old  women,  between  ten  and  twenty  in  number, 
remained  in  the  church  to  finish  the  hymn*  It  was 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon ;  but,  since  twilight  comes 
in  winter  about  that  hour,  it  was  dark  in  the  church. 
The  great  altar,  especially,  was  sunk  in  deep  shade. 
Only  two  candles  were  burning  at  the  ciborium;  their 
flickering  flames  barely  lighted  a  little  the  gilding  of  the 
doors,  and  the  feet  of  Christ,  hanging  on  a  cross  higher 
up.  Those  feet  were  pierced  with  an  enormous  nail, 
and  the  head  of  that  nail  seemed  a  great  point  gleaming 
on  the  altar. 

From  other  candles,  just  quenched,  streaks  of  smoke 
were  waving,  filling  the  places  behind  the  stalls  with  a 
purely  church  odor  of  wax. 

An  old  man  and  a  small  boy  were  busied  before  the 
steps  of  the  altar.  One  was  sweeping;  the  other  was 
stretching  the  carpet  on  the  steps.  At  moments,  when 
the  women  ceased  their  singing,  either  the  angry  whisper 
of  the  old  man  was  heard  scolding  the  boy,  or  the  ham- 
mering on  the  snow-covered  windows  of  sparrows  that 
were  cold  and  hungry  outside. 

1  The  Polish  word  for  angel  is  aniol,  distorted  by  the  old  woman 
into  jamiol,  which  is  pronounced  yamyoL 


464  YAMYOL. 

The  women  were  sitting  on  benches  nearer  the  door. 
It  would  have  been  still  darker  had  it  not  been  for  a  few 
tallow  candles,  by  the  light  of  which  those  who  had 
prayer-books  were  reading.  One  of  those  candles  lighted 
well  enough  a  banner  fastened  to  the  seat  just  beyond ; 
the  banner  represented  sinners  surrounded  by  devils  and 
flames.  It  was  impossible  to  see  what  was  painted  on 
the  other  banners. 

The  women  were  not  singing ;  they  were,  rather,  mut- 
tering with  sleepy  and  tired  voices  a  hymn  in  which 
these  words  were  repeated  continually,  — 

"  And  when  the  hour  of  death  comes, 
Gain  for  us,  gain  from  Thy  Son." 

That  church  buried  in  shadow,  the  banners  standing  at 
the  seats,  the  old  women  with  their  yellow  faces,  the 
lights  flickering  as  if  oppressed  by  the  gloom,  —  all  that 
was  dismal  beyond  expression;  nay,  it  was  simply  ter- 
rible. The  mournful  words  of  the  song  about  death 
found  there  a  fitting  background. 

After  a  time  the  singing  stopped.  One  of  the  women 
stood  up  at  the  seat,  and  began  to  say,  with  a  trembling 
voice,  "  Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace ! "  And  others  re- 
sponded, "  The  Lord  is  with  Thee,"  etc. ;  but  since  it  was 
the  day  of  Kaliksta's  funeral,  each  "Hail,  Mary,"  con- 
cluded with  the  words,  "  Lord,  grant  her  eternal  rest,  and 
may  endless  light  shine  on  her !  " 

Marysia,  the  dead  woman's  daughter,  was  sitting  on 
a  bench  at  the  side  of  one  of  the  old  women.  Just  then 
the  snow,  soft  and  noiseless,  was  falling  on  the  fresh 
grave  of  her  mother;  but  the  little  girl  was  not  ten 
years  old  yet,  and  seemed  not  to  understand  either  her 
loss,  or  the  pity  which  it  might  rouse  in  another.  Her 
face,  with  large  blue  eyes,  had  in  it  the  calmness  of 


YAMYOL.  405 

childhood,  and  even  a  certain  careless  repose.  A  little 
curiosity  was  evident,  —  nothing  beyond  that.  Opening 
her  mouth,  she  looked  with  great  attention  at  the  ban- 
ner on  which  was  painted  hell  with  sinners  ;  then  she 
looked  into  the  depth  of  the  church,  and  afterward  on 
the  window  at  which  the  sparrows  were  hammering. 

Her  eyes  remained  without  thought.  Meanwhile,  the 
women  began  to  mutter,  sleepily,  for  the  tenth  time,— 

"  And  when  the  hour  of  death  comes." 

The  little  girl  twisted  the  tresses  of  her  light-colored 
hair,  woven  into  two  tiny  braids  not  thicker  than  mice 
tails.  She  seemed  tired ;  but  now  the  old  man  occupied 
her  attention.  He  went'  to  the  middle  of  the  church,  and 
began  to  pull  a  knotty  rope  hanging  from  the  ceiling. 
He  was  ringing  for  the  soul  of  Kaliksta,  but  he  did  this 
in  a  purely  mechanical  manner;  he  was  thinking  of 
something  else,  evidently. 

That  ringing  was  also  a  sign  that  vespers  were  ended. 
The  women,  after  repeating  for  the  last  time  the  prayer 
for  a  happy  death,  went  out  on  the  square.  One  of  them 
led  Marysia  by  the  hand. 

"  But,  Kulik,"  asked  another,  "  what  will  you  do  with 
the  girl  ? " 

"  What  will  I  do  ?  She  will  go  to  Leschyntsi.  Voytek 
Margula  will  take  her.  But  why  do  you  ask  me  ? " 

"  What  will  she  do  in  Leschyntsi  ?  " 

"My  dears,  the  same  as  here.  Let  her  go  to  where 
she  came  from.  Even  at  the  mansion  they  will  take  in 
the  orphan,  and  let  her  sleep  in  the  kitchen." 

Thus  conversing,  they  passed  through  the  square  to 
the  inn.  Darkness  was  increasing  every  moment.  It 
was  wintry,  calm  ;  the  sky  was  covered  with  clouds,  the 
air  filled  with  moisture  and  wet  snow.  Water  was 

30 


466  YAMYOL. 

dropping  from  the  roofs ;  on  the  square  lay  slush  formed 
of  snow  and  straw.  The  village,  with  wretched  and 
tattered  houses,  looked  as  gloomy  as  the  church.  A  few 
windows  were  gleaming  with  light ;  movement  had  ceased, 
but  in  the  inn  an  organ  was  playing. 

It  was  playing  to  entice,  for  there  was  no  one  inside. 
The  women  entered,  drank  vodka ;  Kulik  gave  Marysia 
half  a  glass,  saying,  — 

"  Drink  1  Thou  art  an  orphan ;  thou  wilt  not  meet 
kindness." 

The  word  "  orphan  "  brought  the  death  of  Kaliksta  to 
the  minds  of  the  women.  One  of  them  said,  — 

"  To  you,  Kulik,  drink  !  Oh,  my  dears,  how  that 
paralus  [paralysis]  took  her  so  that  she  could  n't  stir  ! 
She  was  cold  before  the  priest  came  to  hear  her  con- 
fession." 

"  I  told  her  long  ago,"  said  Kulik,  "  that  she  was  spin- 
ning fine  [near  her  end].  Last  week  she  came  to  me. 
'  Ah,  better  give  Marysia  to  the  mansion  ! '  said  I.  But 
she  said, '  I  have  one  little  daughter,  and  I  '11  not  give  her 
to  any  one '  But  she  grew  sorry,  and  began  to  sob,  and 
then  she  went  to  the  mayor  to  put  her  papers  in  order. 
She  paid  four  zloty  and  six  groshes.  '  But  I  do  not 
begrudge  it  for  my  child,'  said  she.  My  dears,  but  her 
eyes  were  staring,  and  after  death  they  were  staring  still 
more.  People  wanted  to  close  them,  but  could  not. 
They  say  that  after  death,  even,  she  was  looking  at  her 
child."  " 

"  Let  us  drink  half  a  quarter  over  this  sorrow  ! " 

The  organ  was  playing  continually.  The  women  began 
to  be  somewhat  tender.  Kulik  repeated,  with  a  voice  of 
compassion,  "  Poor  little  thing  !  poor  little  thing  !  "  and 
the  second  old  woman  called  to  mind  the  death  of  her 
late  husband. 


YAMYOL.  467 

"  Wlien  he  was  dying,"  said  she,  "  he  sighed  so,  oh,  he 
sighed  so,  he  sighed  so !  —  "  and  drawling  still  more,  her 
voice  passed  into  a  chant,  from  a  chant  into  the  tone  of 
the  organ,  till  at  last  she  bent  to  one  side,  and  in  follow- 
ing the  organ  began  to  sing,  — 

"  He  sighed,  he  sighed,  he  sighed, 
On  that  day  he  sighed." 

All  at  once  she  fell  to  shedding  hot  tears,  gave  the 
organist  six  groshes,  and  drank  some  more  vodka.  Kulik, 
too,  was  excited  by  tenderness,  but  she  turned  it  on 
Marysia,  — 

"  Remember,  little  orphan,"  said  she,  "  what  the  priest 
said  when  they  were  covering  thy  mother  with  snow, 
that  there  is  a  yamyol  above  thee  —  "  Here  she  stopped, 
looked  around  as  if  astonished,  and  then  added,  with 
unusual  energy,  "  When  I  say  that  there  is  a  yamyol, 
there  is  a  yamyol !  " 

No  one  contradicted  her.  Marysia,  blinking  with  her 
poor,  simple  eyes,  looked  attentively  at  the  woman. 
Kulik  spoke  on,  — 

"  Thou  art  a  little  orphan,  that  is  bad  for  thee  !  Over 
orphans  there  is  a  yamyol.  He  is  good.  Here  are  ten 
groshes  for  thee.  Even  if  thou  wert  to  start  on  foot  to 
Leschyntsi,  thou  couldst  go  there,  for  he  would  guide 
thee." 

The  second  old  woman  began  to  sing,  — 

"In  the  shade  of  his  wings  he  will  keep  thee  eternally, 
Under  his  pinions  thou  wilt  lie  without  danger." 

"  Be  quiet ! "  said  Kulik.  And  then  she  turned  again 
to  the  child,  — 

"  Knowest  thou,  stupid,  who  is  above  thee  ? " 

"  A  yamyol,"  said,  with  a  thin  voice,  the  little  girl. 


468  YAMYOL. 

"  Oh,  thou  little  orphan,  thou  precious  berry,  thou 
little  worm  of  the  Lord  !  A  yamyol  with  wings,"  said 
she,  with  perfect  tenderness,  and  seizing  the  child  she 
pressed  her  to  her  honest,  though  tipsy,  bosorn. 

Marysia  burst  into  weeping  at  once.  Perhaps  in  her 
dark  little  head  and  in  her  heart,  which  knew  not  yet  how 
to  distinguish,  there  was  roused  some'  sort  of  perception 
at  that  moment. 

The  innkeeper  was  sleeping  most  soundly  behind  the 
counter ;  on  the  candle-wicks  mushrooms  had  grown ; 
the  man  at  the  organ  ceased  to  play,  for  what  he  saw 
amused  him. 

Then  there  was  silence,  which  was  broken  by  the 
sudden  plashing  of  horses'  feet  before  the  door,  and  a 
voice  calling  to  the  horses,  — 

"  Prrr  ! " 

Voytek  Margula  walked  into  the  inn  with  a  lighted 
lantern  in  his  hand.  He  put  down  the  lantern,  began  to 
slap  his  arms  to  warm  them,  and  at  last  said  to  the  inn- 
keeper, — 

"  Give  half  a  quarter." 

"  Margula,  thou  chestnut,"  cried  Kulik,  "  thou  wilt  take 
the  little  girl  to  Leschyntsi." 

"  I  '11  take  her,  for  they  told  me  to  take  her,"  replied 
Margula. 

Then  looking  closely  to  the  two  women  he  added, — 

"  But  ye  are  as  drunk  as  — 

"  May  the  plague  choke  thee,"  retorted  Kulik.  "  When 
I  tell  thee  to  be  careful  with  the  child,  be  careful.  She 
is  an  orphan.  Knowest  thou,  fool,  who  is  above  her  ?" 

Voytek  did  not  see  fit  to  answer  that  question,  but 
determined  evidently  to  raise  another  subject,  and 
began,  — 

"  To  all  of  you  —  " 


YAMYOL.  469 

But  he  did  n't  finish,  for  he  drank  the  vodka,  made  a 
wry  face,  and  putting  down  the  glass  with  dissatisfaction, 
said,  — 

"  That 's  pure  water.  Give  me  a  second  from  another 
bottle." 

The  innkeeper  poured  from  another.  Margula  twisted 
his  face  still  more,  — 

"  Ai !  have  n't  you  arrack  ? " 

Evidently  the  same  danger  threatened  Margula  that 
threatened  the  women ;  but  at  that  very  time,  in  the 
mansion  at  Lupiskory,  the  landowner  was  preparing  for 
one  of  the  journals  a  long  and  exhaustive  article,  "  On  the 
right  of  landowners  to  sell  liquor,  this  right  being  con- 
sidered as  the  basis  of  society."  But  Voytek  co-operated 
only  involuntarily  to  strengthen  the  basis  of  society,  and 
that  all  the  more  because  the  sale  here,  though  in  a 
village,  was  really  by  the  landowner. 

When  he  had  co-operated  five  times  in  succession  he 
forgot,  it  is  true,  his  lantern,  in  which  the  light  had  gone 
out,  but  he  took  the  half-sleeping  little  girl  by  the  hand, 
and  said,  — 

"  But  come  on,  thou  nightmare !  " 

The  women  had  fallen  asleep  in  a  corner,  no  one  bade 
farewell  to  Marysia.  The  whole  story  was  this  :  Her 
mother  was  in  the  graveyard  and  she  was  going  to 
Leschyntsi. 

Voytek  and  the  girl  went  out,  sat  in  the  sleigh. 
Voytek  cried  to  the  horses,  and  they  moved  on.  At  first 
the  sleigh  dragged  heavily  enough  through  the  slush  of 
the  town,  but  they  came  out  very  soon  to  fields  which 
were  broad  and  white.  Movement  was  easy  then ;  the 
snow  barely  made  a  noise  under  the  sleigh-runners.  The 
horses  snorted  at  times,  at  times  came  the  barking  of 
dogs  from  a  distance. 


470  YAMYOL. 

They  went  on  and  on.  Voytek  urged  the  horses,  and 
sang  through  his  nose,  "  Dog  ear,  remember  thy  promise." 
But  soon  he  grew  silent,  and  began  to  "  carry  Jews " 
(nod).  He  nodded  to  the  right,  to  the  left.  He  dreamt 
that  they  were  pounding  him  on  the  shoulders  in 
Leschyntsi,  because  he  had  lost  a  basket  of  letters ;  so, 
from  time  to  time,  he  was  half  awake,  and  repeated  : 
"  To  all ! "  Marysia  did  not  sleep,  for  she  was  cold.  She 
looked  with  widely  opened  eyes  on  the  white  fields, 
hidden  from  moment  to  moment  by  the  dark  shoulders  of 
Margula.  She  thought  also  that  her  "  mother  was 
dead ; "  and  thinking  thus,  she  pictured  to  herself  per- 
fectly the  pale  and  thin  face  of  that  mother  with  its  star- 
ing eyes,  —  and  she  felt  half  consciously  that  that  face 
was  greatly  beloved,  that  it  was  no  longer  in  the  world,  and 
that  never  again  would  it  be  in  Leschyntsi.  She  had  seen 
with  her  own  eyes  how  they  covered  it  up  in  Lupiskory. 
Eemembering  this,  she  would  have  cried  from  grief;  but 
as  her  knees  and  feet  were  chilled,  she  began  to  cry  from 
cold. 

There  was  no  frost,  it  is  true,  but  the  air  was  penetrat- 
ing, as  is  usual  during  thaws.  As  to  Voytek  he  had,  at 
least  in  his  stomach,  a  good  supply  of  heat  taken  from 
the  inn.  The  landowner  at  Lupiskory  remarked  justly : 
"  That  vodka  warms  in  winter,  and  since  it  is  the  only 
consolation  of  our  peasants,  to  deprive  landowners  of  the 
sole  power  of  consoling  peasants  is  to  deprive  them  of 
influence  over  the  populace."  Voytek  was  so  consoled  at 
that  moment  that  nothing  could  trouble  him. 

Even  this  did  not  trouble  him,  that  the  horses  when 
they  came  to  the  forest  slackened  their  pace  altogether, 
though  the  road  there  was  better,  and  then  walking  to 
one  side,  the  beasts  turned  over  the  sleigh  into  a  ditch. 
He  woke,  it  is  true,  but  did  not  understand  well  what  had 
happened. 


YAMYOL.  471 

Marysia  began  to  push  him. 

"  Voy  tek  ! " 

"  Why  art  thou  croaking  ? " 

"  The  sleigh  is  turned  over." 

"A  glass?"  asked  Voy  tek,  and  went  to  sleep  for 
good. 

The  little  girl  sat  by  the  sleigh,  crouching  down  as  best 
she  could,  and  remained  there.  But  her  face  was  soon 
chilled,  so  she  began  to  push  the  sleeping  man  again. 

"  Voytek  ! " 

He  gave  no  answer. 

"  Voytek,  I  want  to  go  to  the  house." 

And  after  a  while  again  :  "  Voytek,  I  '11  walk  there." 

At  last  she  started.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Leschyntsi 
was  very  near.  She  knew  the  road,  too,  for  she  had 
walked  to  church  over  it  every  Sunday  with  her  mother. 
But  now  she  had  to  go  alone.  In  spite  of  the  thaw  the 
snow  in  the  forest  was  deep,  but  the  night  was  very  clear. 
To  the  gleam  from  the  snow  was  added  light  from  the 
clouds,  so  that  the  road  could  be  seen  as  in  the  daytime. 
Marysia,  turning  her  eyes  to  the  dark  forest,  could  see 
tree-trunks  very  far  away  outlined  distinctly,  black, 
motionless,  on  the  white  ground ;  and  she  saw  clearly 
also  snow-drifts  blown  to  the  whole  height  of  them.  In 
the  forest  there  was  a  certain  immense  calm,  which  gave 
solace  to  the  child.  On  the  branches  was  thick,  frozen 
snow,  and  from  it  drops  of  water  were  trickling,  striking 
with  faint  sound  against  the  branches  and  twigs.  But 
that  was  the  only  noise.  All  else  around  was  still,  white, 
silent,  dumb. 

The  wind  was  not  blowing.  The  snowy  branches  were 
not  stirring  with  the  slightest  movement.  Everything 
was  sleeping  in  the  trance  of  winter.  It  might  seem  that 
the  snowy  covering  on  the  earth,  and  the  whole  silent 


472  YAMYOL. 

and  shrouded  forest,  with  the  pale  clouds  in  the  heavens, 
were  all  a  kind  of  white,  lifeless  unity.  So  it  is  in  time 
of  thaw.  Marysia  was  the  only  living  thing,  moving  like 
a  little  black  speck  amid  these  silent  greatnesses.  Kind, 
honest  forest !  Those  drops,  which  the  thawing  ice  let 
down,  were  tears,  perhaps,  over  the  orphan.  The  trees 
are  so  large,  but  also  so  compassionate,  above  the  little 
creature.  See,  she  is  alone,  so  weak  and  poor,  in  the 
snow,  in  the  night,  in  the  forest,  wading  along  trustfully, 
as  if  there  is  no  danger. 

The  clear  night  seems  to  care  for  her.  When  some- 
thing so  weak  and  helpless  yields  itself,  trusts  so  per- 
fectly in  enormous  power,  there  is  a  certain  sweetness  in 
the  act.  In  that  way  all  may  be  left  to  the  will  of  God. 
The  girl  walked  rather  long,  and  was  wearied  at  last. 
The  heavy  boots,  which  were  too  large,  hindered  her ;  her 
small  feet  were  going  up  and  down  in  them  continually. 
It  was  hard  to  drag  such  big  boots  out  of  the  snow. 
Besides,  she  could  not  move  her  hands  freely,  for  in  one 
of  them,  closed  rigidly,  she  held  with  all  her  strength 
those  ten  groshes  which  Kulik  had  given  her.  She 
feared  to  drop  them  in  the  snow.  She  began  at  times  to 
cry  aloud,  and  then  she  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  wishing 
to  know  if  some  one  had  heard  her.  Yes,  the  forest  had 
heard  her !  The  thawing  ice  sounded  monotonously  and 
somewhat  sadly.  Besides,  maybe  some  one  else  had 
heard  her.  The  child  went  more  and  more  slowly. 
Could  she  go  astray  ?  How  ?  The  road,  like  a  white, 
broad,  winding  ribbon,  stretched  into  the  distance,  lay 
well  marked  between  two  walls  of  dark  trees.  An 
unconquerable  drowsiness  seized  the  little  girl. 

She  stepped  aside  and  sat  down  under  a  tree.  The 
lids  dropped  over  her  eyes.  After  a  time,  she  thought 
that  her  mother  was  coming  to  her  along  the  white  road 


YAMYOL.  473 

from  the  graveyard.  No  one  was  coming.  Still,  the 
child  felt  certain  that  some  one  must  come.  Who  ?  A 
yarnyol.  Had  n't  old  Kulik  told  her  that  a  yamyol  was 
above  her  ?  Marysia  knew  what  a  yamyol  is.  In  her 
mother's  cottage  there  was  one  painted  with  a  shield  in 
his  hand  and  with  wings.  He  would  come,  surely. 
Somehow  the  ice  began  to  sound  more  loudly.  Maybe 
that  is  the  noise  of  his  wings,  scattering  drops  more 
abundantly.  Stop!  Some  one  is  coming  really;  the 
snow,  though  soft,  sounds  clearly  ;  steps  are  coming,  and 
coming  quietly  but  quickly.  The  child  raises  her  sleepy 
eyelids  with  confidence. 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

Looking  at  the  little  girl  intently  is  a  gray  three- 
cornered  face  with  ears,  standing  upright,  —  ugly, 
terrible  ! 


THE   BULL-FIGHT. 
A   REMINISCENCE   OF   SPAIN. 


THE  BULL-FIGHT. 

A   KEMINISCENCE   OF   SPAIN. 

[T  is  Sunday !  Great  posters,  affixed  for  a  number  of 
days  to  the  corners  of  Puerta  del  Sol,  Calle  Alcala, 
and  all  streets  on  which  there  was  considerable  move- 
ment, announce  to  the  city  that  to-day,  "  Si  el  tiempo  lo 
permite  "  (if  the  weather  permits),  will  take  place  bull- 
fight XVI.,  in  which  Cara-Ancha  Lagartrjo  and  the  re- 
nowned Frascuello  are  to  appear  as  "  espadas  "  (swords). 

Well,  the  weather  permits.  There  was  rain  in  the 
morning;  but  about  ten  o'clock  the  wind  broke  the 
clouds,  gathered  them  into  heaps,  and  drove  them  away 
off  somewhere  in  the  direction  of  the  Escurial.  Now  the 
wind  itself  has  ceased ;  the  sky  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach  is  blue,  and  over  the  Puerta  del  Sol  a  bright  sun  is 
shining,  —  such  a  Madrid  sun,  which  not  only  warms, 
riot  only  burns,  but  almost  bites. 

Movement  in  the  city  is  increasing,  and  on  people's 
faces  satisfaction  is  evident. 

Two  o'clock. 

The  square  of  the  Puerta  del  Sol  is  emptying  gradually, 
but  crowds  of  people  are  advancing  through  the  Calle 
Alcala  toward  the  Prado.  In  the  middle  is  flowing  a 
river  of  carriages  and  vehicles.  All  that  line  of  equi- 
pages is  moving  very  slowly,  for  on  the  sidewalks  there 
is  not  room  enough  for  pedestrians,  many  of  whom  are 
walking  along  the  sides  of  the  streets  and  close  to  the 


478  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

carriages.  The  police,  on  white  horses  and  in  showy 
uniforms  and  three-cornered  hats,  preserve  order. 

It  is  Sunday,  that  is  evident,  and  an  afternoon  hour ; 
the  toilets  are  carefully  made,  the  attire  is  holiday.  It 
is  evident  also  that  the  crowds  are  going  to  some  curious 
spectacle.  Unfortunately  the  throng  is  not  at  all  many- 
colored  ;  no  national  costumes  are  visible,  —  neither  the 
short  coats,  yellow  kerchiefs  d  la  contrabandista,  with 
one  end  dropping  down  to  the  shoulder,  nor  the  round 
Biscay  hats,  nor  girdles,  nor  the  Catalan  knives  behind 
the  girdles. 

Those  things  may  be  seen  yet  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Granada,  Seville,  and  Cordova ;  but  in  Madrid,  especially 
on  holidays,  the  cosmopolitan  frock  is  predominant.  Only 
at  times  do  you  see  a  black  mantilla  pinned  to  a  high 
comb,  and  under  the  mantilla  eyes  blacker  still. 

In  general  faces  are  dark,  glances  quick,  speech  loud. 
Gesticulation  is  not  so  passionate  as  in  Italy,  where  when 
a  man  laughs  he  squirms  like  a  snake,  and  when  he  is 
angry  he  gnaws  off  the  top  of  his  hat ;  still,  it  is  ener- 
getic and  lively.  Faces  have  well-defined  features  and  a 
resolute  look.  It  is  easy  to  understand  that  even  in 
amusement  these  people  retain  their  special  and  definite 
character, 

However,  they  are  a  people  who  on  week-days  are  full 
of  sedateness,  bordering  on  sloth,  sparing  of  words,  and 
collected.  Sunday  enlivens  them,  as  does  also  the  hope 
of  seeing  a  bloody  spectacle. 

Let  us  cut  across  the  Prado  and  enter  an  alley  leading 
to  the  circus. 

The  crowd  is  becoming  still  denser.  Here  and  there 
shouts  are  rising,  the  people  applauding  single  members 
of  the  company,  who  are  going  each  by  himself  to  the 
circus. 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  479 

Here  is  an  omnibus  filled  with  "  capeadors,"  that  is, 
partakers  in  the  fight,  whose  whole  defence  is  red  capes 
with  which  they  mislead  and  irritate  the  bull.  Through 
the  windows  are  visible  black  heads  with  pigtails,  and 
wearing  three-cornered  hats.  The  coats  of  various  colors 
worn  by  the  capeadors  are  embroidered  with  gold  and 
silver  tinsel.  These  capeadors  ride  in  an  omnibus,  for  the 
modest  pay  which  they  get  for  their  perilous  service  does 
not  permit  a  more  showy  conveyance. 

Somewhat  farther,  three  mounted  "  picadors "  push 
their  way  through  the  people.  The  sun  plays  on  their 
broad-brimmed  white  hats.  They  are  athletic  in  build, 
but  bony  and  lean.  Their  shaven  faces  have  a  stern,  and, 
as  it  were,  concentrated  look.  They  are  sitting  on  very 
high  wooden  saddles,  hence  they  are  perfectly  visible 
over  the  crowd.  Each  of  them  holds  in  his  hand  a  lance, 
with  a  wooden  ball  at  the  end  of  it,  from  which  is  pro- 
jecting an  iron  point  not  above  half  an  inch  long.  The 
picador  cannot  kill  a  bull  with  a  weapon  like  that,  —  he 
can  only  pierce  him  or  stop  him  for  a  moment ;  but  in 
the  last  case  he  must  have  in  his  arm  the  strength  of  a 
giant. 

Looking  at  these  men,  I  remember  involuntarily  Dora's 
illustrations  to  "Don  Quixote."  In  fact,  each  of  these 
horsemen  might  serve  as  a  model  for  the  knight  "  of  the 
rueful  visage."  That  lean  silhouette,  outlined  firmly  on 
the  sky,  high  above  the  heads  of  the  multitude,  the  lance 
standing  upright,  and  that  bare-boned  horse  under  the 
rider,  those  purely  Gothic  outlines  of  living  things,  —  all 
answer  perfectly  to  the  conception  which  we  form  of  the 
knight  of  La  Mancha,  when  we  read  the  immortal  work 
of  Cervantes. 

But,  the  picadors  pass  us,  and  urging  apart  the  crowd 
slowly,  push  forward  considerably.  Now  only  three 


480  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

lances  are  visible,  three  hats,  and  three  coats  embroi- 
dered on  the  shoulders.  New  men  ride  up,  as  incalcula- 
bly similar  to  the  first  as  if  some  mill  were  making 
picadors  for  all  Spain  on  one  pattern.  There  is  a  differ- 
ence only  in  the  color  of  the  horses,  which,  however,  are 
equally  lean. 

Our  eyes  turn  now  to  the  long  row  of  carriages.  Some 
are  drawn  by  mules,  but  mules  so  large,  sleek,  and  beau- 
tiful that,  in  spite  of  the  long  ears  of  the  animals,  the 
turn-out  does  not  seem  ridiculous.  Here  and  there  may 
be  seen  also  Andalusian  horses  with  powerful  backs, 
arched  necks,  and  curved  faces.  Such  may  be  seen  in  the 
pictures  of  battle-painters  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

In  the  carriages  are  sitting  the  flower  of  Madrid  society. 
The  dresses  are  black,  there  is  very  black  lace  on  the 
parasols,  on  the  fans,  and  on  the  heads  of  ladies  ;  black 
hair  trimmed  in  forelocks,  from  under  which  are  glancing 
eyes,  as  it  were,  of  the  lava  of  Vesuvius.  Mourning 
colors,  importance,  and  powder  are  the  main  traits  of  that 
society. 

The  faces  of  old  and  of  young  ladies  too  are  covered 
with  powder,  all  of  them  are  equally  frigid  and  pale.  A 
great  pity  !  Were  it  not  for  such  a  vile  custom,  their 
complexion  would  have  that  magnificent  warm  tone 
given  by  southern  blood  and  a  southern  sun,  and  which 
may  be  admired  in  faces  painted  by  Fortuni. 

In  the  front  seats  of  the  carriages  are  men  dressed  with 
an  elegance  somewhat  exaggerated ;  they  have  a  con- 
strained and  too  holiday  air,  —  in  other  words,  they  can- 
not wear  fine  garments  with  that  free  inattention  which 
characterizes  the  higher  society  of  France. 

But  the  walls  of  the  circus  are  outlined  before  us  with 
growing  distinctness.  There  is  nothing  especial  in  the 
building  :  an  enormous  pile  reared  expressly  to  give  seats 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  481 

to  some  tens  of  thousands  of  people,  —  that  is  the  whole 
plan  of  it. 

Most  curious  is  the  movement  near  the  walls.  Eound 
about,  it  is  black  from  carriages,  equipages,  and  heads  of 
people.  Towering  above  this  dark  mass,  here  and  there, 
is  a  horseman,  a  policeman,  or  a  picador  in  colors  as 
brilliant  as  a  poppy  full  blown. 

The  throng  sways,  opens,  closes,  raises  its  voice ;  coach- 
men shout ;  still  louder  shout  boys  selling  handbills. 
These  boys  squeeze  themselves  in  at  all  points  among 
footmen  and  horsemen  ;  they  are  on  the  steps  of  carriages 
and  between  the  wheels  ;  some  climb  up  on  the  buttresses 
of  the  circus  ;  some  are  on  the  stone  columns  which  mark 
the  way  for  the  carriages.  Their  curly  hair,  their  gleam- 
ing eyes,  their  expressive  features,  dark  faces,  and  torn 
shirts  open  in  the  bosom,  remind  me  of  our  gypsies,  and 
of  boys  in  Murillo's  pictures.  Besides  programmes  some 
of  them  sell  whistles.  Farther  on,  among  the  crowds,  are 
fruit-venders ;  water-sellers  with  bronze  kegs  on  their 
shoulders  ;  in  one  place  are  flower  dealers  ;  in  another  is 
heard  the  sound  of  a  guitar  played  by  an  old  blind  woman 
led  by  a  little  girl. 

Movement,  uproar,  laughter ;  fans  are  fluttering  every- 
where as  if  they  were  wings  of  thousands  of  birds  ;  the 
sun  pours  down  white  light  in  torrents  from  a  spotless 
sky  of  dense  blue. 

Suddenly  and  from  all  sides  are  heard  cries  of  "  mira, 
mira  ! "  (look,  look  !)  After  a  while  these  cries  are  turned 
into  a  roar  of  applause,  which  like  real  thunder  flies  from 
one  extreme  to  another  ;  now  it  is  quiet,  now  it  rises  arid 
extends  around  the  whole  circus. 

What  has  happened  ?  Surely  the  queen  is  approach- 
ing, and  with  her  the  court  ? 

No  !  near  by  is  heard  "  eviva  Frascuello ! "     That  is  the 

31 


482  THE  BULL-FIGHT. 

most  famous  espada,  who  is  coming  for  laurels  and 
applause. 

All  eyes  turn  to  him,  and  the  whole  throng  of  women 
push  toward  his  carriage.  The  air  is  gleaming  with 
flowers  thrown  by  their  hands  to  the  feet  of  that  favorite, 
that  hero  of  every  dream  and  imagining,  that  "  pearl  of 
Spain."  They  greet  him  the  more  warmly  because  he  has 
just  returned  from  a  trip  to  Barcelona,  where  during  the 
exhibition  he  astonished  all  barbarous  Europe  with 
thrusts  of  his  sword  ;  now  he  appears  again  in  his  beloved 
Madrid,  more  glorious,  greater,  —  a  genuine  new  Cid  el 
Campeador. 

Let  us  push  through  the  crowd  to  look  at  the  hero. 
First,  what  a  carriage,  what  horses !  More  beautiful 
there  are  not  in  the  whole  of  Castile.  On  white  satin 
cushions  sits,  or  reclines,  we  should  say,  a  man  whose  age 
it  is  difficult  to  determine,  for  his  face  is  shaven  most 
carefully.  He  is  dressed  in  a  coat  of  pale  lily-colored 
satin,  and  knee-breeches  of  similar  material  trimmed  with 
lace.  His  coat  and  the  side  seams  of  his  breeches  are 
glittering  and  sparkling  from  splendid  embroidery,  from 
spangles  of  gold  and  silver  shining  like  diamonds  in 
the  sun.  The  most  delicate  laces  adorn  his  breast.  His 
legs,  clothed  in  rose-colored  silk  stockings,  he  holds 
crossed  carelessly  on  the  front  seat,  —  the  very  first 
athlete  in  the  hippodrome  at  Paris  might  envy  him  those 
calves. 

Madrid  is  vain  of  those  calves,  —  and  in  truth  she  has 
reason. 

The  great  man  leans  with  one  hand  on  the  red  hilt  of 
his  Catalan  blade ;  with  the  other  he  greets  his  admirers 
of  both  sexes  kindly.  His  black  hair,  combed  to  his  poll, 
is  tied  behind  in  a  small  roll,  from  beneath  which  creeps 
forth  a  short  tress.  That  style  of  hair-dressing  and  the 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  483 

shaven  face  make  him  somewhat  like  a  woman,  and  he 
reminds  one  besides  of  some  actor  from  one  of  the  pro- 
vinces ;  taken  generally,  his  face  is  not  distinguished  by 
intelligence,  a  quality  which  in  his  career  would  not  be  a 
hindrance,  though  not  needed  in  any  way. 

The  crowds  enter  the  circus,  and  we  enter  with  them. 

Now  we  are  in  the  interior.  It  differs  from  other 
interiors  of  circuses  only  in  size  and  in  this,  —  that  the 
seats  are  of  stone.  Highest  in  the  circle  are  the  boxes  ; 
of  these  one  in  gold  fringe  and  in  velvet  is  the  royal  box. 
If  no  one  from  the  court  is  present  at  the  spectacle  this 
box  is  occupied  by  the  prefect  of  the  city.  Around  are 
seated  the  aristocracy  and  high  officials ;  opposite  the 
royal  box,  on  the  other  side  of  the  circus,  is  the  orchestra. 
Half-way  up  in  the  circus  is  a  row  of  arm-chairs ;  stone 
steps  form  the  rest  of  the  seats.  Below,  around  the 
arena,  stretches  a  wooden  paling  the  height  of  a  man's 
shoulder.  Between  this  paling  and  the  first  row  of  seats, 
which  is  raised  considerably  higher  for  the  safety  of  the 
spectators,  is  a  narrow  corridor,  in  which  the  combatants 
take  refuge,  in  case  the  bull  threatens  them  too  greatly. 

One-half  of  the  circus  is  buried  in  shadow,  the  other 
is  deluged  with  sunlight.  On  every  ticket,  near  the 
number  of  the  seat,  is  printed  "  sombra "  (shadow)  or 
"  sol  "  (sun).  Evidently  the  tickets  "  sombra  "  cost  con- 
siderably more.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  those 
who  have  "  sol  "  tickets  can  endure  to  sit  in  such  an 
atmosphere  a  number  of  hours  and  on  those  heated  stone 
steps,  with  such  a  sun  above  their  heads. 

The  places  are  all  filled,  however.  Clearly  the  love  of 
a  bloody  spectacle  surpasses  the  fear  of  being  roasted 
alive. 

In  northern  countries  the  contrast  between  light  and 
shadow  is  not  so  great  as  in  Spain  ;  in  the  north  we  find 


484  THE  BULL-FIGHT. 

always  a  kind  of  half  shade,  half  light,  certain  transition 
tones  ;  here  the  boundary  is  cut  off  in  black  with  a  firm 
line  without  any  transitions.  In  the  illuminated  half 
the  sand  seems  to  burn ;  people's  faces  and  dresses  are 
blazing ;  eyes  are  blinking  under  the  excess  of  glare  ; 
it  is  simply  an  abyss  of  light,  full  of  heat,  in  which 
everything  is  sparkling  and  gleaming  excessively,  every 
color  is  intensified  tenfold.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
shaded  half  seems  cut  off  by  some  transparent  curtain, 
woven  from  the  darkness  of  night.  Every  man  who 
passes  from  the  light  to  the  shade,  makes  on  us  the 
impression  of  a  candle  put  out  on  a  sudden. 

At  the  moment  when  we  enter,  the  arena  is  crowded 
with  people.  Before  the  spectacle  the  inhabitants  of 
Madrid,  male  and  female,  must  tread  that  sand  on  which 
the  bloody  drama  is  soon  to  be  enacted.  It  seems  to  them 
that  thus  they  take  direct  part,  as  it  were,  in  the  struggle. 
Numerous  groups  of  men  are  standing,  lighting  their 
cigarettes  and  discoursing  vivaciously  concerning  the 
merits  of  bulls  from  this  herd  or  that  one.  Small  boys 
tease  and  pursue  one  another.  I  see  how  one  puts  under 
the  eyes  of  another  a  bit  of  red  cloth,  treating  him  just 
as  a  "  capeador  "  treats  a  bull.  The  boy  endures  this  a 
while  patiently  ;  at  last  he  rolls  his  eyes  fiercely  and 
runs  at  his  opponent.  The  opponent  deceives  him 
adroitly  with  motions  of  a  cape,  exactly  again  as  the 
capeador  does  the  bull.  The  little  fellows  find  their 
spectators,  who  urge  them  on  with  applause. 

Along  the  paling  pass  venders  of  oranges  proclaiming 
the  merits  of  their  merchandise.  This  traffic  is  carried 
on  through  the  air.  The  vender  throws,  at  request,  with 
unerring  dexterity,  an  orange,  even  to  the  highest  row ; 
in  the  same  way  he  receives  a  copper  piece,  which  he 
catches  with  one  hand  before  it  touches  the  earth. 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  485 

Loud  dialogues,  laughter,  calls,  noise,  rustling  of  fans, 
the  movement  of  spectators  as  they  arrive,  —  all  taken 
together  form  a  picture  with  a  fulness  of  life  of  which 
no  other  spectacle  can  give  an  idea. 

All  at  once  from  the  orchestra  come  sounds  of  trumpets 
and  drums.  At  that  signal  the  people  on  the  arena  fly 
to  their  places  with  as  much  haste  as  if  their  lives  were 
in  danger.  There  is  a  crush.  But  after  a  while  all  are 
seated.  Around,  it  is  just  black  :  people  are  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  head  to  head.  In  the  centre  remains  the  arena 
empty,  deluged  with  sunlight. 

Opposite  the  royal  box  a  gate  in  the  paling  is  thrown 
open,  and  in  ride  two  "  alguazils."  Their  horses  white, 
with  manes  and  tails  plaited,  are  as  splendid  as  if  taken 
from  pictures.  The  riders  themselves,  wearing  black 
velvet  caps  with  white  feathers,  and  doublets  of  similar 
material,  with  lace  collars,  bring  to  mind  the  incompara- 
ble canvases  of  Velasquez,  which  may  be  admired  in  the 
Museo  del  Prado.  It  seems  to  us  that  we  are  transferred 
to  the  times  of  knighthood  long  past.  Both  horsemen 
are  handsome,  both  of  showy  form.  They  ride  stirrup 
to  stirrup,  ride  slowly  around  the  whole  arena  to  con- 
vince themselves  that  no  incautious  spectator  has  re- 
mained on  it.  At  last  they  halt  before  the  royal  box, 
and  with  a  movement  full  of  grace  uncover  their  heads 
with  respect. 

Whoso  is  in  a  circus  for  the  first  time  will  be  filled 
with  admiration  at  the  stately,  almost  middle-age,  cere- 
monial, by  the  apparel  and  dignity  of  the  horsemen.  The 
alguazils  seem  like  two  noble  heralds,  giving  homage  to  a 
monarch  before  the  beginning  of  a  tournament.  It  is,  in 
fact,  a  prayer  for  permission  to  open  the  spectacle,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  request  for  the  key  of  the  stables  in 
which  the  bulls  are  confined.  After  a  while  the  key  is 


486  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

let  down  from  the  box  on  a  gold  string ;  the  alguazils 
incline  once  again  and  ride  away.  Evidently  this  is  a 
mere  ceremonial,  for  the  spectacle  was  authorized  pre- 
viously, and  the  bulls  are  confined  by  simple  iron  bolts. 
But  the  ceremony  is  beautiful,  and  they  never  omit  it. 

In  a  few  minutes  after  the  alguazils  have  vanished,  the 
widest  gate  is  thrown  open,  and  a  whole  company  enters. 
At  the  head  of  it  ride  the  same  two  alguazils  whom  we 
saw  before  the  royal  box ;  after  them  advance  a  rank  of 
capeadors  ;  after  the  capeadors  come  "  banderilleros,"  and 
the  procession  is  concluded  by  picadors.  This  entire 
party  is  shining  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
gleaming  from  tinsel,  gold,  silver,  and  satins  of  various 
colors.  They  come  out  from  the  dark  side  to  the  sun- 
lighted  arena,  dive  into  the  glittering  light,  and  bloom 
like  flowers.  The  eye  cannot  delight  itself  sufficiently 
with  the  many  colors  of  those  spots  on  the  golden  sand. 

Having  reached  the  centre,  they  scatter  on  a  sudden, 
like  a  flock  of  butterflies.  The  picadors  dispose  them- 
selves around  at  the  paling,  and  each  one,  drawing  his 
lance  from  its  rest,  grasps  it  firmly  in  his  right  hand ; 
the  men  on  foot  form  picturesque  groups  ;  they  stand  in 
postures  full  of  indifference,  waiting  for  the  bull. 

This  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  moment  of  the  spec- 
tacle, full  of  originality,  so  thoroughly  Spanish  that  regret 
at  not  being  a  painter  comes  on  a  man  in  spite  of  himself. 
How  much  color,  what  sunlight  might  be  transferred 
from  the  palette  to  the  canvas  ! 

Soon  blood  will  be  flowing  on  that  sand.  In  the  circus 
it  is  as  still  as  in  time  of  sowing  poppy  seed,  —  it  is  barely 
possible  to  hear  the  sound  of  fans,  which  move  only  in  as 
much  as  the  hands  holding  them  quiver  from  impatience. 
All  eyes  are  turned  to  the  door  through  which  the  bull 
will  rush  forth.  Time  now  is  counted  by  seconds. 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  487 

Suddenly  the  shrill,  and  at  the  same  time  the  mourn- 
ful, sound  of  a  trumpet  is  heard  in  the  orchestra;  the 
door  of  the  stable  opens  with  a  crash,  and  the  bull  bursts 
into  the  arena,  like  a  thunderbolt. 

That  is  a  lordly  beast,  with  a  powerful  and  splendid 
neck,  a  head  comparatively  short,  horns  enormous  and 
turned  forward.  Our  heavy  breeder  gives  a  poor  idea  of 
him ;  for  though  the  Spanish  bull  is  not  the  equal  of  ours 
in  bulk  of  body,  he  surpasses  him  in  strength,  and,  above 
all,  in  activity.  At  the  first  cast  of  the  eye  you  recognize 
a  beast  reared  wild  in  the  midst  of  great  spaces ;  con- 
sequently with  all  his  strength  he  can  move  almost  as 
swiftly  as  a  deer.  It  is  just  this  which  makes  him  dan- 
gerous in  an  unheard-of  degree.  His  forelegs  are  a 
little  higher  than  his  hind  ones ;  this  is  usual  with  cattle 
of  mountain  origin.  In  fact,  the  bulls  of  the  circus 
are  recruited  especially  from  the  herds  in  the  Sierra 
Morena.  Their  color  is  for  the  greater  part  black,  rarely 
reddish  or  pied.  The  hair  is  short,  and  glossy  as  satin  > 
only  the  neck  is  covered  somewhat  with  longer  and  curly 
hair. 

After  he  has  burst  into  the  arena,  the  bull  slackens  his 
pace  toward  the  centre,  looks  with  bloodshot  eyes  to  the 
right,  to  the  left,  —  but  this  lasts  barely  two  seconds;  he 
sees  a  group  of  capeadors ;  he  lowers  his  head  to  the 
ground,  and  hurls  himself  on  them  at  random. 

The  capeadors  scatter,  like  a  flock  of  sparrows  at  which 
some  man  has  fired  small-shot.  Holding  behind  them 
red  capes,  they  circle  now  in  the  arena,  with  a  swiftness 
that  makes  the  head  dizzy ;  they  are  everywhere ;  they 
glitter  to  the  right,  to  the  left;  they  are  in  the  middle  of 
the  arena,  at  the  paling,  before  the  eyes  of  the  bull,  in 
front,  behind.  The  red  capes  flutter  in  the  air,  like 
banners  torn  by  the  wind. 


488  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

The  bull  scatters  the  capeadors  in  every  direction  ;  with 
lightning-like  movements  he  chases  one,  —  another  thrusts 
a  red  cape  under  his  very  eyes ;  the  bull  leaves  the  first 
victim  to  run  after  a  second,  but  before  he  can  turn,  some 
third  man  steps  up.  The  bull  rushes  at  that  one !  Dis- 
tance between  them  decreases,  the  horns  of  the  bull 
seem  to  touch  the  shoulder  of  the  capeador ;  another 
twinkle  of  an  eye  and  he  will  be  nailed  to  the  paling,  — 
but  meanwhile  the  man  touches  the  top  of  the  paling 
with  his  hand,  and  vanishes  as  if  he  had  dropped  through 
the  earth. 

What  has  happened  ?  The  capeador  has  sprung  into 
the  passage  extending  between  the  paling  and  the  first 
row  of  seats. 

The  bull  chooses  another  man ;  but  before  he  has 
moved  from  his  tracks  the  first  capeador  thrusts  out  his 
head  from  behind  the  paling,  like  a  red  Indian  stealing  to 
the  farm  of  a  settler,  and  springs  to  the  arena  again.  The 
bull  pursues  more  and  more  stubbornly  those  unattain- 
able enemies,  who  vanish  before  his  very  horns ;  at  last 
he  knows  where  they  are  hidden.  He  collects  all  his 
strength,  anger  gives  him  speed,  and  he  springs  like  a 
hunting-horse  over  the  paling,  certain  that  he  will  crush 
his  foes  this  time  like  worms. 

But  at  that  very  moment  they  hurl  themselves  back 
to  the  arena  with  the  agility  of  chimpanzees,  and  the 
bull  runs  along  the  empty  passage,  seeing  no  one  before 
him. 

The  entire  first  row  of  spectators  incline  through  the 
barrier,  then  strike  from  above  at  the  bull  with  canes, 
fans,  and  parasols.  The  public  are  growing  excited.  A 
bull  that  springs  over  the  paling  recommends  himself 
favorably.  When  people  in  the  first  row  applaud  him 
with  all  their  might,  those  in  the  upper  rows  clap  their 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  489 

hands,   crying,   "  Bravo   el   toro !    muy   bien !     Bravo  el 
toro !"     (Bravo  the  bull !     Very  well,  bravo  the  bull ! ) 

Meanwhile  he  conies  to  an  open  door  and  runs  out 
again  to  the  arena.  On  the  opposite  side  of  it  two  capea- 
dors  are  sitting  on  a  step  extending  around  the  foot  of  the 
paling,  and  are  conversing  without  the  slightest  anxiety- 
The  bull  rushes  on  them  at  once ;  he  is  in  the  middle  of 
the  arena,  —  and  they  sit  on  without  stopping  their  talk ; 
he  is  ten  steps  away,  —  they  continue  sitting  as  if  they  had 
not  seen  him  ;  he  is  five  steps  away,  —  they  are  still  talk- 
ing. Cries  of  alarm  are  heard  here  and  there  in  the  circus  ; 
before  his  very  horns  the  two  daring  fellows  spring,  one 
to  the  right,  the  other  to  the  left.  The  bull's  horns  strike 
the  paling  with  a  heavy  blow.  A  storm  of  hand-clapping 
breaks  out  in  the  circus,  and  at  that  very  moment  these 
and  other  capeadors  surround  the  bull  again  and  provoke 
him  with  red  capes. 

His  madness  passes  now  into  fury :  he  hurls  himself 
forward,  rushes,  turns  on  his  tracks ;  every  moment  his 
horns  give  a  thrust,  every  moment  it  seems  that  no 
human  power  can  wrest  this  or  that  man  from  death. 
Still  the  horns  cut  nothing  but  air,  and  the  red  capes  are 
glittering  on  all  sides ;  at  times  one  of  them  falls  to  the 
ground,  and  that  second  the  bull  in  his  rage  drives 
almost  all  of  it  into  the  sand.  But  that  is  not  enough  for 
him,  —  he  must  search  out  some  victim,  and  reach  him  at 
all  costs. 

Hence,  with  a  deep  bellow  and  with  bloodshot  eyes  he 
starts  to  run  forward  at  random,  but  halts  on  a  sudden  ; 
a  new  sight  strikes  his  eye,  —  that  is,  a  picador  on  horse- 
back. 

The  picadors  had  stood  hitherto  on  their  lean  horses, 
like  statues,  their  lances  pointing  upward.  The  bull, 
occupied  solely  with  the  hated  capes,  had  not  seen  them, 
or  if  he  had  seen  them  he  passed  them. 


490  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

Almost  never  does  it  happen  that  the  bull  begins  a 
fight  with  horsemen.  The  capes  absorb  his  attention 
and  rouse  all  his  rage.  It  may  be,  moreover,  that  the 
picadors  are  like  his  half-wild  herdsmen  in  the  Sierra 
Morena,  whom  he  saw  at  times  from  a  distance,  and  be- 
fore whom  he  was  accustomed  to  flee  with  the  whole 
herd. 

But  now  he  has  had  capes  enough;  his  fury  seeks 
eagerly  some  body  to  pierce  and  on  which  to  sate  his 
vengeance. 

For  spectators  not  accustomed  to  this  kind  of  play,  a 
terrible  moment  is  coming.  Every  one  understands  that 
blood  must  be  shed  soon. 

The  bull  lowers  his  head  and  withdraws  a  number  of 
paces,  as  if  to  gather  impetus ;  the  picador  turns  the 
horse  a  little,  with  his  right  side  to  the  attacker,  so  the 
horse,  having  his  right  eye  bound  with  a  cloth,  shall  not 
push  back  at  the  moment  of  attack.  The  lance  with  a 
short  point  is  lowered  in  the  direction  of  the  bull ;  he 
withdraws  still  more.  It  seems  to  you  that  he  will 
retreat  altogether,  and  your  oppressed  bosom  begins  to 
breathe  with  more  ease. 

Suddenly  the  bull  rushes  forward  like  a  rock  rolling 
down  from  a  mountain.  In  the  twinkle  of  an  eye  you 
see  the  lance  bent  like  a  bow ;  the  sharp  end  of  it  is 
stuck  in  the  shoulder  of  the  bull,  —  and  then  is  enacted 
a  thing  simply  dreadful :  the  powerful  head  and  neck  of 
the  furious  beast  is  lost  under  the  belly  of  the  horse,  his 
horns  sink  their  whole  length  in  the  horse's  intestines ; 
sometimes  the  bull  lifts  horse  and  rider,  sometimes  you 
see  only  the  up-raised  hind  part  of  the  horse,  struggling 
convulsively  in  the  air.  The  rider  falls  to  the  ground, 
the  horse  tumbles  upon  him,  and  you  hear  the  creak- 
ing of  the  saddle ;  horse,  rider,  and  saddle  form  one 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  491 

shapeless  mass,  which  the  raging  bull  tramples  and  bores 
with  his  horns. 

Faces  unaccustomed  to  the  spectacle  grow  pale.  In 
Barcelona  and  Madrid  I  have  seen  Englishwomen  whose 
faces  had  become  as  pale  as  linen.  Every  one  in  the  cir- 
cus for  the  first  time  has  the  impression  of  a  catastrophe. 
When  the  rider  is  seen  rolled  into  a  lump,  pressed  down 
by  the  weight  of  the  saddle  and  the  horse,  and  the  raging 
beast  is  thrusting  his  horns  with  fury  into  that  mass  of 
flesh,  it  seems  that  for  the  man  there  is  no  salvation,  and 
that  the  attendants  will  raise  a  mere  bloody  corpse  from 
the  sand. 

But  that  is  illusion.  All  that  is  done  is  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  the  spectacle. 

Under  the  white  leather  and  tinsel  the  rider  has  armor 
which  saves  him  from  being  crushed,  —  he  fell  purposely 
under  the  horse,  so  that  the  beast  should  protect  him  with 
his  body  from  the  horns.  In  fact  the  bull,  seeing  before 
him  the  fleshy  mass  of  the  horse's  belly,  expends  on  it 
mainly  his  rage.  Let  me  add  that  the  duration  of  the 
catastrophe  is  counted  by  seconds.  The  capeadors  have 
attacked  the  bull  from  every  side,  and  he,  wishing  to  free 
himself  from  them,  must  leave  his  victims.  He  does 
leave  them,  he  chases  again  after  the  capeadors  ;  his 
steaming  horns,  stained  with  blood,  seem  again  to  be  just 
touching  the  capeadors'  shoulders.  They,  in  escaping, 
lead  him  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  arena ;  other  men 
meanwhile  draw  from  beneath  the  horse  the  picador,  who 
is  barely  able  to  move  under  the  weight  of  his  armor,  and 
throw  him  over  the  paling. 

The  horse  too  tries  to  raise  himself;  frequently  he 
rises  for  a  moment,  but  then  a  ghastly  sight  strikes  the 
eye.  From  his  torn  belly  hangs  a  whole  bundle  of  in- 
testines with  a  rosy  spleen,  bluish  liver,  and  greenish 


492  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

stomach.  The  hapless  beast  tries  to  walk  a  few  steps  ; 
but  his  trembling  feet  tread  on  his  own  entrails,  he  falls, 
digs  the  ground  with  his  hoofs,  shudders.  Meanwhile 
the  attendants  run  up,  remove  the  saddle  and  bridle,  and 
finish  the  torments  of  the  horse  with  one  stab  of  a 
stiletto,  at  the  point  where  head  and  neck  come 
together. 

On  the  arena  remains  the  motionless  body,  which,  lying 
now  on  its  side,  seems  wonderfully  flat.  The  intestines 
are  carried  out  quickly  in  a  basket  which  is  somewhat 
like  a  wash-tub,  and  the  public  clap  their  hands  with 
excitement.  Enthusiasm  begins  to  seize'  them  :  "  Bravo 
el  toro  !  Bravo  picador  ! "  Eyes  are  flashing,  on  faces  a 
flush  comes,  a  number  of  hats  fly  to  the  arena  in  honor 
of  the  picador.  Meanwhile  "  el  toro,"  having  drawn  blood 
once,  kills  a  number  of  other  horses.  If  his  horns  are 
buried  not  in  the  belly  but  under  the  shoulder  of  the 
horse,  a  stream  of  dark  blood  bursts  onto  the  arena  in  an 
uncommon  quantity ;  the  horse  rears  and  falls  backward 
with  his  rider.  A  twofold  danger  threatens  the  man  : 
the  horns  of  the  bull  or,  in  spite  of  his  armor,  the  break- 
ing of  his  neck.  But,  as  we  have  said,  the  body  of  the 
horse  becomes  a  protection  to  the  rider ;  hence,  every 
picador  tries  to  receive  battle  at  the  edge  of  the  arena,  so 
as  to  be,  as  it  were,  covered  between  the  body  of  the 
horse  and  the  paling.  When  the  bull  withdraws,  the 
picador  advances,  but  only  a  few  steps,  so  that  the  battle 
never  takes  place  in  the  centre. 

All  these  precautions  would  not  avail  much,  and  the 
bull  would  pierce  the  horsemen  at  last,  were  it  not  for 
the  capeadors.  They  press  on  the  bull,  draw  away  his 
attention,  rush  with  unheard-of  boldness  against  his  rage, 
saving  each  moment  the  life  of  some  participant  in  the 
struggle.  Once  I  saw  an  espada,  retreating  before  the  rag- 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  493 

ing  beast,  stumble  against  the  head  of  a  dead  horse  and  fall 
on  his  back  ;  death  inevitable  was  hanging  above  .him,  the 
horns  of  the  bull  were  just  ready  to  pass  through  his 
breast,  when  suddenly  between  that  breast  and  the  horns 
the  red  capes  were  moving,  and  the  bull  flew  after  the 
capes.  It  may  be  said  that  were  it  not  for  that  flock  of 
chimpanzees  waving  red  capes,  the  work  of  the  picadors 
would  be  impossible,  and  at  every  representation  as  many 
of  them  as  of  horses  would  perish. 

It  rarely  happens  that  a  picador  can  stop  a  bull  at  the 
point  of  a  lance.  This  takes  place  only  when  the  bull 
advances  feebly,  or  the  picador  is  gifted  with  gigantic 
strength  of  arms,  surpassing  the  measure  of  men.  I  saw 
two  such  examples  in  Madrid,  after  which  came  a  hurri- 
cane of  applause  for  the  picador. 

But  usually  the  bull  kills  horses  like  flies ;  and  he  is 
terrible  when,  covered  with  sweat,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
with  a  neck  bleeding  from  lances  and  his  horns  painted 
red,  he  runs  around  the  arena,  as  if  in  the  drunkenness  of 
victory.  A  deep  bellow  comes  from  his  mighty  lungs ;  at 
one  moment  he  scatters  capeadors,  at  another  he  halts 
suddenly  over  the  body  of  a  horse,  now  motionless,  and 
avenges  himself  on  it  terribly,  —  he  raises  it  on  his  horns, 
carries  it  around  the  arena,  scattering  drops  of  stiff  blood 
on  spectators  in  the  first  row  ;  then  he  casts  it  again  on 
the  stained  sand  and  pierces  it  a  second  time.  It  seems 
to  him,  evidently,  that  the  spectacle  is  over,  and  that  it 
has  ended  in  his  triumph. 

But  the  spectacle  has  barely  passed  through  one-half  of 
its  course.  Those  picadors  whose  horses  have  survived 
the  defeat,  ride  out,  it  is  true,  from  the  arena ;  but  in 
place  of  them  run  in  with  jumps,  and  amid  shouts,  nim- 
ble banderilleros.  Every  one  of  them  in  his  upraised 
hands  has  two  arrows,  each  an  ell  long,  ornamented,  in 


494  THE  BULL-FIGHT. 

accordance  with  the  coat  of  the  man,  with  a  blue,  a 
green,  or  a  red  ribbon,  and  ending  with  a  barbed  point, 
which  once  it  is  under  the  skin  will  not  come  out  of  it. 
These  men  begin  to  circle  about  the  bull,  shaking  the 
arrows,  stretching  toward  him  the  points,  threatening 
and  springing  up  toward  him.  The  bull  rolls  his  blood- 
shot eyes,  turns  his  head  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  looking 
to  see  what  new  kind  of  enemies  these  are.  "  Ah,"  says 
he,  evidently,  to  himself,  "  you  have  n't  had  blood  enough, 
you  want  more  —  you  shall  have  it ! "  and  selecting  the 
man,  he  rushes  at  him. 

But  what  happens  ?  The  first  banderillero,  instead  of 
fleeing,  runs  toward  the  bull,  —  runs  past  his  head,  as  if  he 
wished  to  avoid  him ;  but  in  that  same  second  something 
seems  hanging  in  the  air  like  a  rainbow :  the  man  is  run- 
ning away  empty-handed  with  all  the  strength  of  his  legs, 
toward  the  paling,  and  in  the  neck  of  the  bull  are  two 
colored  arrows. 

After  a  moment  another  pair  are  sticking  in  him,  and 
then  a  third  pair,  —  six  altogether,  with  three  colors. 
The  neck  of  the  beast  seems  now  as  if  ornamented  with  a 
bunch  of  flowers,  but  those  flowers  have  the  most  terrible 
thorns  of  any  on  earth.  At  every  movement  of  the  bull, 
at  every  turn  of  his  head,  the  arrows  stir,  shake,  fly 
from  one  side  of  his  neck  to  the  other,  and  with  that 
every  point  is  boring  into  the  wound.  From  pain  the 
animal  is  evidently  falling  into  the  madness  of  rage ;  but 
the  more  he  rushes  the  greater  his  pain.  Hitherto  the 
bull  was  the  wrong-doer,  now  they  wrong  him,  wrong  him 
terribly.  He  would  like  to  get  rid  of  those  torturing  ar- 
rows; but  there  is  no  help  for  him.  He  is  growing  mad 
from  mere  torment,  and  is  harassed  to  the  utmost.  Foam 
covers  his  nostrils,  his  tongue  is  protruding ;  he  bel- 
lows no  longer,  but  in  the  short  intervals  between  the 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  495 

wild  shouts,  the  clapping,  and  the  uproar  of  the  specta- 
tors, you  may  hear  his  groans,  which  have  an  accent 
almost  human.  The  capeadors  harassed  him,  every 
picador  wounded  him,  now  the  arrows  are  working  into 
his  wounds  ;  thirst  and  heat  complete  his  torments. 

It  is  his  luck  that  he  did  not  get  another  kind  of  "  ban- 
derille."  If  —  which  happens  rarely,  however,  —  the  bull 
refuses  to  attack  the  horses  and  has  killed  none,  the 
enraged  public  rise,  and  in  the  circus  something  in  the 
nature  of  a  revolution  sets  in.  Men  with  their  canes  and 
women  with  their  parasols  and  fans  turn  to  the  royal 
box;  wild,  hoarse  voices  of  cruel  cavaliers,  and  the  shrill 
ones  of  senoritas,  shout  only  one  word  :  "  Fuego  !  fuego  ! 
fuego ! "  (Fire,  fire,  fire  ! ) 

The  representatives  of  the  government  withhold  their 
consent  for  a  long  time.  Hence  "  Fuego !  "  is  heard  ever 
more  threateningly,  and  drowns  all  other  voices ;  the 
threat  rises  to  such  an  intensity  as  to  make  us  think  that 
the  public  may  pass  at  any  instant  from  words  to  a  mad 
deed  of  some  kind.  Half  an  hour  passes :  "  Fuego ! 
fuego ! "  There  is  no  help  for  it.  The  signal  is  given, 
and  the  unfortunate  bull  gets  a  banderille  which  when 
thrust  into  his  neck  blazes  up  that  same  instant. 

The  points  wound  in  their  own  way,  and  in  their  own 
way  rolls  of  smoke  surround  the  head  of  the  beast,  the 
rattle  of  fireworks  stuns  him ;  great  sparks  fall  into  his 
wounds,  small  congreve  rockets  burst  under  his  skin  ;  the 
smell  of  burnt  flesh  and  singed  hair  fill  the  arena.  In 
truth,  cruelty  can  go  no  further;  but  the  delight  of  the 
public  rises  now  to  its  zenith.  The  eyes  of  women  are 
covered  with  mist  from  excitement,  every  breast  is  heav- 
ing with  pleasure,  their  heads  fall  backward,  and  between 
their  open  moist  lips  are  gleaming  white  teeth.  You 
would  say  that  the  torment  of  the  beast  is  reflected  in 


496  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

the  nerves  of  those  women  with  an  answering  degree  of 
delight.  Only  in  Spain  can  such  things  be  seen.  There 
is  in  that  frenzy  something  hysterical,  something  which 
recalls  certain  Phoenician  mysteries,  performed  on  the 
altar  of  Melitta. 

The  daring  and  skill  of  the  banderilleros  surpass  every 
measure.  I  saw  one  of  them  who  had  taken  his  place  in 
the  middle  of  the  arena  in  an  arm-chair ;  he  had  stretched 
his  legs  carelessly  before  him,  —  they  were  in  rose- 
colored  stockings,  —  he  crossed  them,  and  holding  above 
his  head  a  banderille,  was  waiting  for  the  bull.  The  bull 
rushed  at  him  straightway ;  the  next  instant,  I  saw  only 
that  the  banderille  was  fastened  in  the  neck,  and  the  bull 
was  smashing  the  chair  with  mad  blows  of  his  head.  In 
what  way  the  man  had  escaped  between  the  chair  and  the 
horns,  I  know  not,  —  that  is  the  secret  of  his  skill.  An- 
other banderillero,  at  the  same  representation,  seizing  the 
lance  of  a  picador  at  the  moment  of  attack,  supported 
himself  with  it,  and  sprang  over  the  back  and  whole 
length  of  the  bull.  The  beast  was  dumfounded,  could 
not  understand  where  his  victim  had  vanished. 

A  multitude  of  such  wonders  of  daring  and  dexterity 
are  seen  at  each  representation. 

One  bull  never  gets  more  than  three  pairs  of  bander- 
illes.  When  the  deed  is  accomplished,  a  single  trumpet 
is  heard  in  the  orchestra  with  a  prolonged  and  sad  note, 
—  and  the  moment  the  most  exciting  and  tragic  in  the 
spectacle  approaches.  All  that  was  done  hitherto  was 
only  preparation  for  this.  Now  a  fourth  act  of  the 
drama  is  played. 

On  the   arena  comes  out   the   "  matador "  himself,  — 
that  is,  the  espada.     He  is  dressed  like  the  other  partici- 
pants in  the  play,  only  more  elaborately  and  richly.     His 
coat  is  all  gold  and  tinsel :  costly  laces  adorn  his  breast. 


THE   BULL-FIGHT.  497 

He  may  be  distinguished  by  this  too,  —  that  he  comes 
out  bareheaded  always.  His  black  hair,  combed  back 
carefully,  ends  on  his  shoulders  in  a  small  tail.  In  his 
left  hand  he  holds  a  red  cloth  flag,  in  his  right  a  long 
Toledo  sword.  The  capeadors  surround  him  as  soldiers 
their  chief,  ready  at  all  times  to  save  him  in  a  moment  of 
danger,  and  he  approaches  the  bull,  collected,  cool,  but 
terrible  and  triumphant. 

In  all  the  spectators  the  hearts  are  throbbing  violently, 
and  a  moment  of  silence  sets  in. 

In  Barcelona  and  Madrid  I  saw  the  four  most  eminent 
espadas  in  Spain,  and  in  truth  I  admit,  that  besides  their 
cool  blood,  dexterity,  and  training,  they  have  a  certain 
hypnotic  power,  which  acts  on  the  animal  and  fills  him 
with  mysterious  fear.  The  bull  simply  bears  himself 
differently  before  the  espada  from  what  he  did  before  the 
previous  participants  in  the  play.  It  is  not  that  he  with- 
draws before  him ;  on  the  contrary,  he  attacks  him  with 
greater  insistence  perhaps.  But  in  former  attacks,  in 
addition  to  rage,  there  was  evident  a  certain  desire.  He 
hunted,  he  scattered,  he  killed ;  he  was  as  if  convinced 
that  the  whole  spectacle  was  for  him,  and  that  the  ques- 
tion was  only  in  this,  that  he  should  kill.  Now,  at  sight 
of  that  cold,  awful  man  with  a  sword  in  his  hand,  he  con- 
vinces himself  that  death  is  there  before  him,  that  he 
must  perish,  that  on  that  bloody  sand  the  ghastly  deed 
will  be  accomplished  in  some  moments. 

This  mental  state  of  the  beast  is  so  evident  that  every 
man  can  divine  it.  Perhaps  even  this,  by  its  tragic 
nature,  becomes  the  charm  of  the  spectacle.  That  mighty 
organism,  simply  seething  with  a  superabundance  of  vital- 
ity, of  desire,  of  strength,  is  unwilling  to  die,  will  not 
consent  to  die  for  anything  in  the  world  !  and  death,  un- 
avoidable, irresistible,  is  approaching ;  hence  unspeakable 

32 


498  THE   BULL-FIGHT. 

sorrow,  unspeakable  despair,  throbs  through  every  move- 
ment of  the  bull.  He  hardly  notices  the  capeadors, 
whom  before  he  pursued  with  such  venom ;  he  attacks 
the  espada  himself,  but  he  attacks  with  despair  com- 
pletely evident. 

The  espada  does  not  kill  him  at  once,  for  that  is  not 
permitted  by  the  rules  of  the  play.  He  deceives  the  bull 
with  movements  of  the  flag,  himself  he  pushes  from  the 
horns  by  turns  slight  and  insignificant ;  he  waits  for  the 
moment,  withdraws,  advances.  Evidently  he  wishes  to 
sate  the  public ;  now,  this  very  instant,  he  '11  strike,  now 
he  lowers  his  sword  again. 

The  struggle  extends  over  the  whole  arena  ;  it  glitters 
in  the  sun,  is  dark  in  the  shade.  In  the  circus  applause 
is  heard,  now  general,  now  single  from  the  breast  of  some 
senorita  who  is  unable  to  restrain  her  enthusiasm.  At 
one  moment  bravos  are  thundering ;  at  another,  if  the 
espada  has  retreated  awkwardly  or  given  a  false  blow, 
hissing  rends  the  ear.  The  bull  has  now  given  some  tens 
of  blows  with  his  horns,  —  always  to  the  flag ;  the  public 
are  satisfied ;  here  arid  there  voices  are  crying :  "  Mata  el 
toro  !  mate  el  toro  !  "  (Kill  the  bull !  kill  the  bull ! ) 

And  now  a  flash  comes  so  suddenly  that  the  eye  can- 
not follow  it ;  then  the  group  of  fighters  scatter,  and  in 
the  neck  of  the  bull,  above  the  colored  banderilles,  is 
seen  the  red  hilt  of  the  sword.  The  blade  has  gone 
through  the  neck,  and,  buried  two  thirds  of  its  length, 
is  planted  in  the  lungs  of  the  beast. 

The  espada  is  defenceless ;  the  bull  attacks  yet,  but  he 
misleads  him  in  the  old  fashion  with  the  flag,  he  saves 
himself  from  the  blows  with  half  turns. 

Meanwhile  it  seems  that  people  have  gone  wild  in  the 
circus.  No  longer  shouts,  but  one  bellow  and  howl  are 
heard,  around,  from  above  to  below.  All  are  springing 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  499 

from  their  seats.  To  the  arena  are  flying  bouquets, 
cigar-cases,  hats,  fans.  The  fight  is  approaching  its  end. 

A  film  is  coming  over  the  eyes  of  the  bull ;  from  his 
mouth  are  hanging  stalactites  of  bloody  saliva ;  his 
groan  becomes  hoarse.  Night  is  embracing  his  head. 
The  glitter  and  heat  of  the  sun  concern  him  no  longer. 
He  attacks  yet,  but  as  it  were  in  a  dream.  It  is  darker 
and  darker  before  him.  At  last  he  collects  the  remnant 
of  his  consciousness,  backs  to  the  paling,  totters  for  a 
moment,  kneels  on  his  fore  feet,  drops  on  his  hind  ones, 
and  begins  to  die. 

The  espada  looks  at  him  no  longer ;  he  has  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  spectators,  from  whom  hats  and  cigar-cases 
are  flying,  thick  as  hail ;  he  bows  ;  capeadors  throw  back 
to  the  spectators  their  hats. 

A  mysterious  man  dressed  in  black  now  climbs  over 
the  paling  in  silence  and  puts  a  stiletto  in  the  bull,  where 
the  neck-bone  meets  the  skull;  with  a  light  movement 
he  sinks  it  to  the  hilt  and  turns  it. 

That  is  the  blow  of  mercy,  after  which  the  head  of  the 
bull  drops  on  its  side. 

All  the  participants  pass  out.  For  a  moment  the 
arena  is  empty ;  on  it  are  visible  only  the  body  of  the 
bull  and  the  eviscerated  carcasses  of  four  or  five  horses, 
now  cold. 

But  after  a  while  rush  in  with  great  speed  men  with 
mules,  splendidly  harnessed  in  yellow  and  red  ;  the  men 
attach  these  mules  to  the  bodies  and  draw  them  around 
so  that  the  public  may  enjoy  the  sight  once  again,  then 
with  speed  equally  great  they  go  out  through  the  doors 
of  the  arena. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  the  spectacle  is  ended  with 
one  bull.  After  the  first  comes  a  second,  after  the 
second  a  third,  and  so  on.  In  Madrid  six  bulls  perish 


500  THE  BULL-FIGHT. 

at  a  representation.  In  Barcelona,  at  the  time  of  the 
fair,  eight  were  killed. 

Do  not  think  either  that  the  public  are  wearied  by 
the  monotony  of  the  fight.  To  begin  with,  the  fight 
itself  is  varied  with  personal  episodes  caused  by  tempera- 
ment, the  greater  or  less  rage  of  the  bull,  the  greater  or 
less  skill  of  the  men  in  their  work ;  secondly,  that  public 
is  never  annoyed  at  the  sight  of  blood  and  death. 

The  "  toreadores  "  (though  in  Spain  no  participant  in 
the  fight  is  called  a  toreador),  thanks  to  their  dexterity, 
rarely  perish ;  but  if  that  happens,  the  spectacle  is  con- 
sidered as  the  more  splendid,  and  the  bull  receives  as 
much  applause  as  the^espada.  Since,  however,  accidents 
happen  to  people  sometimes,  at  every  representation, 
besides  the  doctor,  there  is  present  a  priest  with  the 
sacrament.  That  spiritual  person  is  not  among  the  audi- 
ence, of  course ;  but  he  waits  in  a  special  room,  to  which 
the  wounded  are  borne  in  case  of  an  accident. 

Whether  in  time,  under  the  influence  of  civilization, 
bull-fights  will  be  abandoned  in  Spain,  it  is  difficult  to 
say.  The  love  of  those  fights  is  very  deep  in  the  nature 
of  the  Spanish  people.  The  higher  and  intelligent  ranks 
of  society  take  part  in  them  gladly.  The  defenders  of 
these  spectacles  say  that  in  substance  they  are  nothing 
more  than  hazardous  hunting,  which  answers  to  the 
knightly  character  of  the  nation.  But  hunting  is  an 
amusement,  not  a  career ;  in  hunting  there  is  no  audi- 
ence, —  only  actors ;  there  are  no  throngs  of  women, 
half  fainting  from  delight  at  the  spectacle  of  torment 
and  death  ;  finally,  in  hunting  no  one  exposes  his  life 
for  hire. 

Were  I  asked  if  the  spectacle  is  beautiful,  I  should  say 
yes  ;  beautiful  especially  in  its  surroundings,  —  that  sun, 
those  shades,  those  thousands  of  fans  at  sight  of  which 


THE  BULL-FIGHT.  501 

it  seems  as  though  a  swarm  of  butterflies  had  settled  on 
the  seats  of  the  circus,  those  eyes,  those  red  moist  lips. 
Beautiful  is  that  incalculable  quantity  of  warm  and 
strong  tones,  that  mass  of  colors,  gold,  tinsel,  that  in- 
flamed sand,  from  which  heat  is  exhaling,  —  finally  those 
proofs  of  bold  daring,  and  that  terror  hanging  over  the 
play.  All  that  is  more  beautiful  by  far  than  the  streams 
of  blood  and  the  torn  bellies  of  the  horses. 

He,  however,  who  knows  these  spectacles  only  from 
description,  and  sees  them  afterwards  with  his  own  eyes, 
cannot  but  think  :  what  a  wonderful  people  for  whom 
the  highest  amusement  and  delight  is  the  sight  of  a 
thing  so  awful,  so  absolute  and  inevitable  as  death. 
Whence  comes  that  love  ?  Is  it  simply  a  remnant  of 
Middle-age  cruelty ;  or  is  it  that  impulse  which  is  roused 
in  many  persons,  for  instance  at  sight  of  a  precipice,  to 
go  as  near  as  possible  to  the  brink,  to  touch  that  curtain, 
behind  which  begin  the  mystery  and  the  pit  ?  —  that  is 
a  wonderful  passion,  which  in  certain  souls  becomes 
irresistible. 

Of  the  Spaniards  it  may  be  said,  that  in  the  whole 
course  of  their  history  they  have  shown  a  tendency  to 
extremes.  Few  people  have  been  so  merciless  in  war- 
fare ;  none  have  turned  a  religion  of  love  into  such  a 
gloomy  and  bloody  worship;  finally,  no  other  nation 
amuses  itself  by  playing  with  death. 


SACHEM. 


SACHEM. 

IN  the  town  of  Antelope,  situated  on  a  river  of  the  same 
name  in  the  State  of  Texas,  every  living  person  was 
hurrying  to  the  circus.  The  inhabitants  were  interested 
all  the  more  since  from  the  foundation  of  the  town  that 
was  the  first  time  that  a  circus  had  come  to  it  with  danc- 
ing women,  minstrels,  and  rope-walkers.  The  town  was 
new.  Fifteen  years  before  not  only  was  there  not  one 
house  there,  but  in  all  the  region  round  about  there 
were  no  white  people.  Moreover,  on  the  forks  of  the 
river,  on  the  very  spot  on  which  Antelope  was  situated, 
stood  an  Indian  village  called  Chiavatta.  That  had  been 
the  capital  of  the  Black  Snakes,  who  in  their  time  were 
such  an  eyesore  to  the  neighboring  settlements  of  Berlin, 
Grundenau,  and  Harmonia,  that  these  settlements  could 
endure  them  no  longer.  True,  the  Indians  were  only 
defending  their  "land,"  which  the  State  government  of 
Texas  had  guaranteed  to  them  forever  by  the  most 
solemn  treaties;  but  what  was  that  to  the  colonists  of 
Berlin,  Grundenau,  and  Harmonia  ?  It  is  true  that  they 
took  from  the  Black  Snakes  earth,  air,  and  water,  but 
they  brought  civilization  in  return ;  the  redskins  on 
their  part  showed  gratitude  in  their  own  way,  —  that  is, 
by  taking  scalps  from  the  heads  of  the  Germans.  Such 
a  state  of  things  could  not  be  suffered.  Therefore,  the 
settlers  from  Berlin,  Grundenau,  and  Harmonia  assembled 
on  a  certain  moonlight  night  to  the  number  of  four 


506  SACHEM. 

hundred,  and,  calling  to  their  aid  Mexicans  from  La  Ora, 
fell  upon  sleeping  Chiavatta. 

The  triumph  of  the  good  cause  was  perfect.  Chiavatta 
was  burned  to  ashes,  and  the  inhabitants,  without  regard 
to  sex  or  age,  were  cut  to  pieces.  Only  small  parties  of 
warriors  escaped  who  at  that  time  were  absent  on  a  hunt. 
In  the  town  itself  not  one  soul  was  left  alive  mainly 
because  the  place  lay  in  the  forks  of  a  river,  which,  hav- 
ing overflowed,  as  is  usual  in  spring-time,  surrounded  the 
settlement  with  an  impassable  gulf  of  waters.  But  the 
same  forked  position  which  ruined  the  Indians,  seemed 
good  to  the  Germans.  From  the  forks  it  was  difficult  to 
escape,  but  the  place  was  defensible.  Thanks  to  this 
thought,  emigration  set  in  at  once  from  Berlin,  Griin- 
denau,  and  Harmonia  to  the  forks,  in  which  in  the 
twinkle  of  an  eye,  on  the  site  of  the  wild  Chiavatta,  rose 
the  civilized  town  of  Antelope.  In  five  years  it  num- 
bered two  thousand  inhabitants. 

In  the  sixth  year  they  discovered  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  forks  a  quicksilver  mine  ;  the  working  of  this 
doubled  the  number  of  inhabitants.  In  the  seventh 
year,  by  virtue  of  Lynch  law,  they  hanged  on  the  square 
of  the  town  the  last  twelve  warriors  of  the  Black  Snakes, 
who  were  caught  in  the  neighboring  "Forest  of  the 
Dead,"  —  and  henceforth  nothing  remained  to  hinder  the 
development  of  Antelope.  Two  "Tagblatter"  (daily 
papers)  were  published  in  the  town,  and  one  "  Mon  tags- 
revue  "  (Monday  Keview).  A  line  of  railroad  united 
the  place  with  Bio  del  Norte  and  San  Antonio ;  on 
Opuncia  Gasse  (Opuncia  Street)  stood  three  schools, 
one  of  which  was  a  high  school.  On  the  square  where 
they  had  hanged  the  last  Black  Snakes,  the  citizens 
had  erected  a  philanthropic  institution.  Every  Sunday 
the  pastors  taught  in  the  churches  love  of  one's  neigh- 


SACHEM.  507 

bor,  respect  for  the  property  of  others,  and  similar 
virtues  essential  to  a  civilized  society ;  a  certain 
travelling  lecturer  read  a  dissertation  "  On  the  rights  of 
nations." 

The  richest  inhabitants  had  begun  to  talk  of  founding 
a  university,  to  which  the  government  of  the  State  was 
to  contribute.  The  citizens  were  prosperous.  The  trade 
in  quicksilver,  oranges,  barley,  and  wine  brought  them 
famous  profits.  They  were  upright,  thrifty,  industrious, 
systematic,  fat.  Whoever  might  visit  in  later  years 
Antelope  with  a  population  nearing  twenty  thousand 
would  not  recognize  in  the  rich  merchants  of  the  place 
those  pitiless  warriors  who  fifteen  years  before  had 
burned  Chiavatta.  The  days  passed  for  them  in  their 
stores,  workshops,  and  offices ;  the  evenings  they  spent 
in  the  beer-saloon  "  Golden  Sun  "  on  Rattlesnake  Street. 
Listening  to  those  sounds  somewhat  slow  and  guttural  of 
"  Mahlzeit,  Mahlzeit !  "  (meal-time,  meal-time),  to  those 
phlegmatic  "  Nun  ja  wissen  Sie,  Herr  Miiller,  ist  das  aber 
mb'glich  ? "  (Well,  now,  Herr  Miiller,  but  is  that  pos- 
sible ?),  that  clatter  of  goblets,  that  sound  of  beer  dropping 
on  the  floor,  that  plash  of  overflowing  foam  ;  seeing  that 
calm,  that  slowness,  those  Philistine  faces  covered  with 
fat,  those  fishy  eyes,  —  a  man  might  suppose  himself  in 
a  beer-garden  in  Berlin  or  Munich,  and  not  on  the 
ruins  of  Chiavatta.  But  in  the  town  everything  was 
"  ganz  gemiithlich  "  (altogether  cosey),  and  no  one  had  a 
thought  of  the  ruins.  That  evening  the  whole  popula- 
tion was  hastening  to  the  circus,  first,  because  after  hard 
labor  recreation  is  as  praiseworthy  as  it  is  agreeable; 
second,  because  the  inhabitants  were  proud  of  its  arrival. 
It  is  well-known  that  circuses  do  not  come  to  every  little 
place ;  hence  the  arrival  of  the  Hon.  M.  Dean's  troupe 
had  confirmed  the  greatness  and  magnificence  of  Ante- 


508  SACHEM. 

lope.  There  was,  however,  a  third  and  perhaps  the 
greatest  cause  of  the  general  curiosity. 

No.  Two  of  the  programme  read  as  follows,  — 

"A  walk  on  a  wire  extended  fifteen  feet  above  the 
ground  will  be  made  to  the  accompaniment  of  music  by  the 
renowned  gymnast  Black  Vulture,  sachem  of  the  Black 
Snakes,  the  last  descendant  of  their  chiefs,  the  last  man  of 
the  tribe.  1.  The  walk ;  2.  Springs  of  the  Antelope ; 
3.  The  death-dance  and  death-song." 

If  that  "  sachem  "  could  rouse  the  highest  interest  in  any 
place,  it  was  surely  in  Antelope.  Hon.  M.  Dean  told  at 
the  "  Golden  Sun  "  how  fifteen  years  before,  on  a  journey 
to  Santa  F6*,  he  had  found,  on  the  Pianos  de  Tornado,  an 
old  dying  Indian  with  a  boy  ten  years  of  age.  The  old 
man  died  from  wounds  and  exhaustion  ;  but  before  death 
he  declared  that  the  boy  was  the  son  of  the  slain  sachem 
of  the  Black  Snakes,  and  the  heir  to  that  office. 

The  troupe  sheltered  the  orphan,  who  in  time  became 
the  first  acrobat  in  it.  It  was  only  at  the  "  Golden  Sun," 
however,  that  Hon.  M.  Dean  learned  first  that  Antelope 
was  the  former  Chiavatta,  and  that  the  famous  rope-walker 
would  exhibit  himself  on  the  grave  of  his  fathers.  This 
information  brought  the  director  into  perfect  humor;  he 
might  reckon  now  surely  on  a  great  attraction,  if  only  he 
knew  how  to  bring  out  the  effect  skilfully.  Of  course 
the  Philistines  of  Antelope  hurried  to  the  circus  to  show 
their  wives  and  children,  imported  from  Germany,  the 
last  of  the  Black  Snakes,  —  those  wives  and  children  who 
in  their  lives  had  never  seen  Indians,  —  and  to  say:  "  See, 
we  cut  to  pieces  men  just  like  that  fellow,  fifteen  years 
ago!"  "  Ach,  Herr  Je  !"  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  such 
an  exclamation  of  wonder  from  the  mouth  of  Amalchen, 
or  little  Fritz.  Throughout  the  town,  therefore,  all  were 
repeating  unceasingly,  "  Sachem  !  Sachem ! " 


SACHEM.  509 

From  early  morning  the  children  were  looking  through 
cracks  in  the  boards  with  curious  and  astonished  faces ; 
the  older  boys,  more  excited  by  the  warrior  spirit,  marched 
home  from  school  in  terrible  array,  without  knowing 
themselves  why  they  did  so. 

It  is  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  —  a  wonderful 
night,  clear,  starry.  A  breeze  from  the  suburbs  brings 
the  odor  of  orange  groves,  which  in  the  town  is  mingled 
with  the  odor  of  malt.  In  the  circus  there  is  a  blaze  of 
light.  Immense  pine-torches  fixed  before  the  principal 
gate  are  burning  and  smoking.  The  breeze  waves  the 
plumes  of  smoke  and  the  bright  flame  which  illuminates 
the  dark  outlines  of  the  building.  It  is  a  freshly  erected 
wooden  pile,  circular,  with  a  pointed  roof,  and  the  starry 
flag  of  America  on  the  summit  of  it.  Before  the  gate 
are  crowds  who  could  not  get  tickets  or  had  not  the 
wherewithal  to  buy  them  ;  they  look  at  the  wagons  of  the 
troupe,  and  principally  at  the  canvas  curtain  of  the  great 
Eastern  door,  on  which  is  depicted  a  battle  of  the  whites 
with  the  redskins.  At  moments  when  the  curtain  is 
drawn  aside  the  bright  refreshment-bar  within  is  visible, 
with  its  hundreds  of  glasses  on  the  table.  Now  they 
draw  aside  the  curtain  for  good,  and  the  throng  enters. 
The  empty  passages  between  the  seats  begin  to  resound 
with  the  steps  of  people,  and  soon  the  dark  moving  mass 
fills  all  the  place  from  the  highest  point  to  the  floor.  It 
is  clear  as  day  in  the  circus,  for  though  they  had  not  been 
able  to  bring  in  gas  pipes,  a  gigantic  chandelier  formed  of 
fifty  kerosene  lamps  takes  its  place.  In  those  gleams  are 
visible  the  heads  of  the  beer  drinkers,  fleshy,  thrown  back 
to  give  room  to  their  chins,  the  youthful  faces  of  women, 
and  the  pretty,  wondering  visages  of  children,  whose  eyes 
are  almost  coming  out  of  their  heads  from  curiosity.  But 
all  the  spectators  have  the  curious,  self-satisfied  look  that 


510  SACHEM. 

is  usual  in  an  audience  at  a  circus.  Amid  the  hum  of 
conversation  interrupted  by  cries  of  "  Frisch  wasser!  frisch 
wasser ! "  (fresh  water),  all  await  the  beginning  with 
impatience. 

At  last  a  bell  sounds,  six  grooms  appear  in  shining 
boots,  and  stand  in  two  ranks  at  the  passage  from  the 
stables  to  the  arena.  Between  those  ranks  a  furious 
horse  rushes  forth,  without  bridle  or  saddle ;  and  on  him, 
as  it  were  a  bundle  of  muslin  ribbons  and  tulle,  is  the 
dancer  Lina.  They  begin  mano3uvring  to  the  sound  of 
music.  Lina  is  so  pretty  that  young  Matilda,  daughter  of 
the  brewer  on  Opuncia  Gasse,  alarmed  at  sight  of  her 
beauty,  inclines  to  the  ear  of  Floss,  a  young  grocer  from 
the  same  street,  and  asks  in  a  whisper  if  he  loves  her  yet. 
Meanwhile  the  horse  gallops,  and  puffs  like  an  engine ; 
the  clowns,  a  number  of  whom  run  after  the  dancer,  crack 
whips,  shout,  and  strike  one  another  on  the  faces.  The 
dancer  vanishes  like  lightning ;  there  is  a  storm  of  ap- 
plause. What  a  splendid  representation  !  But  No.  One 
passes  quickly.  No.  Two  is  approaching.  The  word 
"  Sachem  !  sachem  ! "  flies  from  mouth  to  mouth  among 
the  spectators.  No  one  gives  a  thought  now  to  the 
clowns,  who  cease  not  to  strike  one  another.  In  the 
midst  of  the  apish  movements  of  the  clowns,  the  grooms 
bring  lofty  wooden  trestles  several  yards  in  height,  and 
put  them  on  both  sides  of  the  arena.  The  band  stops 
playing  Yankee  Doodle,  and  gives  the  gloomy  aria  of  the 
Commandore  in  Don  Juan.  They  extend  the  wire  from  one 
trestle  to  the  other.  All  at  once  a  shower  of  red  Bengal 
light  falls  at  the  passage,  and  covers  the  whole  arena  with 
a  bloody  glare.  In  that  glare  appears  the  terrible  sachem, 
the  last  of  the  Black  Snakes.  But  what  is  that  ?  The 
sachem  is  not  there,  but  the  manager  of  the  troop  him- 
self, Hon.  M.  Dean.  He  bows  to  the  public  and  raises  his 


SACHEM.  511 

voice.  He  has  the  honor  to  beg  "  the  kind  and  respected 
gentlemen,  as  well  as  the  beautiful  and  no  less  respected 
ladies,  to  be  unusually  calm,  give  no  applause,  and  remain 
perfectly  still,  for  the  chief  is  excited  and  wilder  than 
usual."  These  words  produce  no  little  impression,  and  —  a 
wonderful  thing  !  —  those  very  citizens  of  Antelope  who 
fifteen  years  before  had  destroyed  Chiavatta,  feel  now  some 
sort  of  very  unpleasant  sensation.  _  A  moment  before, 
when  the  beautiful  Lina  was  performing  her  springs  on 
horseback,  they  were  glad  to  be  sitting  so  near,  right  there 
close  to  the  parapet,  whence  they  could  see  everything  so 
well ;  and  now  they  look  with  a  certain  longing  for  the 
upper  seats  of  the  circus,  and  in  spite  of  all  laws  of 
physics,  find  that  the  lower  they  are  the  more  stifling 
it  is. 

But  could  that  sachem  remember?  He  was  reared 
from  years  of  childhood  in  the  troupe  of  Hon.  M.  Dean, 
composed  mainly  of  Germans.  Had  he  not  forgotten 
everything  ?  This  seemed  probable.  His  environment 
and  fifteen  years  of  a  circus  career,  the  exhibition  of  his 
art,  the  winning  of  applause,  must  have  exerted  their 
influence. 

Chiavatta,  Chiavatta  !  But  they  are  Germans,  they 
are  on  their  own  soil,  and  think  no  more  of  the  father- 
land than  business  permits.  Above  all,  man  must  eat 
and  drink.  This  truth  every  Philistine  must  keep  in 
mind,  as  well  as  the  last  of  the  Black  Snakes. 

These  meditations  are  interrupted  suddenly  by  a  cer- 
tain wild  whistle  in  the  stables,  and  on  the  arena  appears 
the  sachem  expected  so  anxiously.  A  brief  murmur  of 
the  crowd  is  heard :  "  That  is  he,  that  is  he ! " 
and  then  silence.  But  there  is  hissing  from  Bengal 
lights,  which  burn  continually  at  the  passage.  All  eyes 
are  turned  toward  the  chief,  who  in  the  circus  will  ap- 


512  SACHEM. 

pear  on  the  graves  of  his  fathers.  The  Indian  deserves 
really  that  men  should  look  at  him.  He  seems  as 
haughty  as  a  king.  A  mantle  of  white  ermine  —  the 
mark  of  his  chieftainship  —  covers  his  figure,  which  is 
lofty,  and  so  wild  that  it  brings  to  mind  a  badly  tamed 
jaguar.  He  has  a  face  as  it  were  forged  out  of  bronze, 
like  the  head  of  an  eagle,  and  in  his  face  there  is  a  cold 
gleam;  his  eyes  are -genuinely  Indian,  calm,  indifferent, 
and  ominous.  He  glances  around  on  the  assembly,  as 
if  wishing  to  choose  a  victim.  Moreover,  he  is  armed 
from  head  to  foot.  On  his  head  plumes  are  waving, 
at  his  girdle  he  has  an  axe  and  a  knife  for  scalping; 
but  in  his  hand,  instead  of  a  bow,  he  holds  a  long 
staff  to  preserve  his  balance  when  walking  on  the  wire. 
Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  arena  he  gives  forth  on 
a  sudden  a  war  cry.  Herr  G-ott  !  That  is  the  cry  of 
the  Black  Snakes.  Those  who  massacred  Chiavatta  re- 
member clearly  that  terrible  howl,  —  and  what  is  most 
wonderful,  those  who  fifteen  years  before  had  no  fear 
of  one  thousand  such  warriors  are  sweating  now  before 
one.  But  behold  !  the  director  approaches  the  chief  and 
says  something  to  him,  as  if  to  pacify  and  calm  him. 
The  wild  beast  feels  the  bit ;  the  words  have  their  in- 
fluence, for  after  a  time  the  sachem  is  swaying  on  the 
wire.  With  eyes  fixed  on  the  kerosene  chandelier  he 
advances.  The  wire  bends  much ;  at  moments  it  is  not 
visible,  and  then  the  Indian  seems  suspended  in  space. 
He  is  walking  as  it  were  upward ;  he  advances,  retreats, 
and  again  he  advances,  maintaining  his  balance.  His 
extended  arms  covered  with  the  mantle  seem  like  great 
wings.  He  totters!  he  is  falling!  —  No.  A  short  in- 
terrupted bravo  begins  like  a  storm  and  stops.  The  face 
of  the  chief  becomes  more  and  more  threatening.  In  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  kerosene  lamps  is  gleaming  some  ter- 


SACHEM.  513 

rible  light.  There  is  alarm  in  the  circus,  but  no  one 
breaks  the  silence.  Meanwhile  the  sachem  approaches 
the  end  of  the  wire,  stops  ;  all  at  once  a  war-song  bursts 
forth  from  his  lips. 

A  strange  thing ! .  The  chief  sings  in  German.  But 
that  is  easy  to  understand.  Surely  he  has  forgotten  the 
tongue  of  the  Black  Snakes.  Moreover,  no  one  notices 
that.  All  listen  to  the  song,  which  rises  and  grows  in 
volume.  It  is  a  half  chant,  a  kind  of  half  call,  im- 
measurably plaintive,  wild,  and  hoarse,  full  of  sounds  of 
attack. 

The  following  words  were  heard  :  "  After  the  great  yearly 
rains,  five  hundred  warriors  used  to  go  from  Chiavatta 
on  the  war-path  or  to  spring  hunts  ;  when  they  came 
back  from  war  they  brought  scalps,  when  they  came  back 
from  a  hunt  they  brought  the  flesh  and  the  skins  of 
buffaloes ;  their  wives  met  them  with  gladness,  and  they 
danced  in  .honor  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

"  Chiavatta  was  happy.  The  women  worked  in  the 
wigwams,  the  children  grew  up  to  be  beautiful  maidens, 
to  be  brave,  fearless  warriors.  The  warriors  died  on  the 
field  of  glory,  and  went  to  the  silver  mountains  to  hunt 
with  the  ghosts  of  their  fathers.  Their  axes  were  never 
dipped  in  the  blood  of  women  and  children,  for  the 
warriors  of  Chiavatta  were  high-minded.  Chiavatta  was 
powerful ;  but  pale-faces  came  from  beyond  distant 
waters  and  set  fire  to  Chiavatta.  The  white  warriors 
did  not  destroy  the  Black  Snakes  in  battle,  but  they 
stole  in  as  do  jackals  at  night,  they  buried  their  knives 
in  the  bosoms  of  sleeping  men,  women,  and  children. 

"  Now  there  is  no  Chiavatta.  In  place  of  it  the  white 
men  have  raised  their  stone  wigwams.  The  murdered 
nation  and  ruined  Chiavatta  cry  out  for  vengeance." 

The  voice  of  the  chief  became  hoarse.      Standing  on 

33 


514  SACHEM. 

the  wire,  he  seemed  a  red  archangel  of  vengeance  float- 
ing above  the  heads  of  that  throng  of  people.  Evidently 
the  director  himself  was  afraid.  A  silence  as  of  death 
settled  down  in  the  circus.  The  chief  howled  on,  — 

"  Of  the  whole  nation  there  remained  only  one  little 
child.  He  was  weak  and  small,  but  he  swore  to  the 
spirit  of  the  earth  that  he  would  have  vengeance,  —  that 
he  would  see  the  corpses  of  white  men,  women,  and 
children,  that  he  would  see  fire  and  blood." 

The  last  words  were  changed  into  a  bellow  of  fury. 
In  the  circus  murmurs  were  heard  like  the  sudden  puffs 
of  a  whirlwind.  Thousands  of  questions  without  answer 
came  to  men's  minds.  What  will  he  do,  that  mad  tiger  ? 
What  is  he  announcing  ?  How  will  he  accomplish  his 
vengeance,  —  he  alone  ?  Will  he  stay  here  or  flee  ? 
Will  he  defend  himself,  and  how  ?  "  Was  ist  das,  was 
1st  das  ? "  is  heard  in  the  terrified  accents  of  women. 

All  at  once  an  unearthly  howl  was  rent  from  the 
breast  of  the  chief.  The  wire  swayed  violently,  he 
sprang  to  the  wooden  trestle,  standing  at  the  chandelier, 
and  raised  his  staff.  A  terrible  thought  flew  like  a  flash 
through  all  heads.  He  will  hurl  around  the  lamps  and 
fill  the  circus  with  torrents  of  flaming  kerosene  —  From 
the  breasts  of  the  spectators  one  shout  was  just  rising; 
but  what  do  they  see  ?  From  the  arena  the  cry  comes, 
"  Stop  !  stop  ! "  The  chief  is  gone  !  Has  he  jumped 
down  ?  He  has  gone  through  the  entrance  without 
firing  the  circus !  Where  is  he  ?  See,  he  is  coming, 
coming  a  second  time,  panting,  tired,  terrible.  In  his 
hand  is  a  pewter  plate,  and  extending  it  to  the  specta- 
tors, he  calls  in  a  voice  of  entreaty :  "  Was  gefallig  fur 
den  letzten  der  Schwarzen  Schlangen  ? "  (What  are  you 
pleased  to  give  to  the  last  of  the  Black  Snakes  ?) 

A  stone  falls  from  the  breasts  of  the  spectators.     You 


SACHEM.  515 

see  that  was  all  in  the  programme,  it  was  a  trick  of  the 
director  for  effect.  The  dollars  and  half  dollars  came 
down  in  a  shower.  How  could  they  say  "No"  to  the 
last  of  the  Black  Snakes,  in  Antelope  reared  on  the  ruins 
of  Chiavatta  ?  People  have  hearts. 

After  the  exhibition,  the  sachem  drank  beer  and  ate 
dumplings  at  the  "  Golden  Sun."  His  environment  had 
exerted  its  influence,  evidently.  He  found  great  popular- 
ity in  Antelope,  especially  with  women,  —  there  was  even 
scandal  about  him. 


A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

FIVE  or  six  years  since  it  happened  that  oil  springs 
were  discovered  in  a  certain  place  in  Mariposa 
County,  California.  The  enormous  profits  which  such 
springs  yield  in  Nevada  and  other  States,  induced  a 
number  of  men  to  form  a  company  for  the  purpose  of 
working  the  newly-discovered  springs.  They  brought  in 
various  machines,  —  pumps,  engines,  ladders,  barrels,  kegs, 
drills,  and  kettles;  they  built  houses  for  laborers,  and 
called  the  place  Struck  Oil.  After  a  certain  time  a  desert 
and  uninhabited  neighborhood,  which  a  year  before  was 
inhabited  only  by  coyotes,  became  a  settlement  composed 
of  a  number  of  tens  of  houses  occupied  by  several  hundred 
laborers. 

Two  years  later,  Struck  Oil  was  called  Struck  Oil  City. 
In  fact  it  was  a  "  city  "  in  the  full  meaning  of  that  term.  I 
beg  the  reader  to  note  that  there  were  living  in  the  city  a 
shoemaker,  a  tailor,  a  carpenter,  a  blacksmith,  a  butcher, 
and  a  doctor,  —  a  Frenchman,  who  in  his  time  had  shaved 
beards  in  France,  but  for  the  rest  a  "  learned  man," 
and  harmless,  which  in  an  American  doctor  means  a  great 
deal. 

The  doctor,  as  happens  very  often  in  small  American 
towns,  kept  also  a  drug  store  and  a  poet-office  ;  therefore  he 
had  a.  triple  practice.  He  was  as  harmless  an  apothecary 
as  he  was  a  doctor,  for  it  was  possible  to  buy  only  two 
kinds  of  medicine  in  his  drug  store,  —  sugar  sirup  and 


520  A    COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

leroa.1  This  quiet  and  mild  old  man  said  usually  to  his 
patients,  — 

"  You  need  not  fear  my  prescriptions,  for  when  I  give 
medicine  to  a  patient  I  always  take  the  same  dose 
myself;  I  understand  that  if  it  will  not  hurt  me  while 
in  health  it  will  not  harm  a  sick  man.  Is  n't  that 
true  ? " 

"  True,"  answered  the,  reassured  citizen,  to  whom  some- 
how it  did  not  occur  that  it  was  not  only  the  duty  of  a 
doctor  to  avoid  injuring  a  sick  man,  but  to  help  him. 

Monsieur  Dasonville,  such  was  the  doctor's  name, 
believed  especially  in  the  miraculous  effects  of  leroa. 
More  than  once  at  meetings  he  removed  the  hat  from  his 
head,  and  turning  to  the  public  said, — 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  convince  yourselves  concerning 
leroa.  I  am  eighty-four  years  of  age  and  use  leroa  every 
day.  Look  at  me,  I  have  not  one  gray  hair  on  my 
head." 

The  ladies  and  gentlemen  might  discover  that  the 
doctor  had  not  one  gray  hair ;  but  then  he  had  no  hair 
at  all,  for  his  head  was  as  bald  as  a  lamp  globe.  But 
since  discoveries  of  that  kind  contributed  in  no  way  to 
the  growth  of  Struck  Oil  City,  no  one  made  them. 

Meanwhile  Struck  Oil  City  grew  and  grew.  At  the 
expiration  of  two  years  a  branch  railroad  was  built  to  it. 
The  city  had  its  elective  officers  also.  The  doctor,  whom 
everybody  loved,  was  chosen  judge,  as  a  representative  of 
the  intelligence ;  the  shoemaker,  a  Polish  Jew,  Mr.  Davis 
(David  was  his  real  name)  was  chosen  sheriff,  that  is, 
chief  of  the  police,  which  was  composed  of  the  sheriff  and 
no  one  else ;  they  built  a  schoolhouse,  for  the  manage- 
ment of  which  a  "  schoolma'am "  was  imported  on  pur- 
pose, —  a  maiden  born  before  man  reckoned  time,  and  who 
1  Leroa  is,  no  doubt,  the  French  Le  roi,  the  King. 


A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS.  521 

had  an  eternal  toothache  ;  finally,  the  first  hotel  rose,  and 
was  named  United  States  Hotel. 

"Business"  was  lively  beyond  measure.  The  export 
of  oil  brought  good  profit.  It  was  noticed  that  Mr.  Davis 
had  put  out  before  his  shop  a  glass  showcase,  like  those 
which  adorn  the  shoeshops  in  San  Francisco.  At  the 
following  meeting  the  inhabitants  thanked  Mr.  Davis 
publicly  for  this  "  new  ornament  to  the  city."  Mr.  Davis 
answered  with  the  modesty  of  a  great  citizen,  "  Thank 
you !  thank  you  ! " 

Where  there  is  a  judge  and  a  sheriff  there  are  lawsuits. 
These  require  writing  and  paper.  Therefore,  on  the  cor- 
ner of  First  and  Coyote  streets  there  arose  a  "  stationery," 
that  is  a  paper  shop,  in  which  were  sold  also  political 
daily  papers  and  caricatures,  one  of  which  represented 
President  Grant  in  the  form  of  a  man  milking  a  cow, 
which  in  her  turn  represented  the  United  States.  The 
duties  of  the  sheriff  did  not  enjoin  on  him  at  all  to  forbid 
the  sale  of  such  pictures,  for  that  does  not  pertain  to  the 
police. 

But  this  was  not  the  end  yet.  An  American  city  can- 
not exist  without  a  newspaper.  At  the  end  of  the  second 
year,  therefore,  a  paper  appeared  called  the  "  Saturday 
Weekly  Review,"  which  had  as  many  subscribers  as  there 
were  inhabitants  in  Struck  Oil  City.  The  editor  of  that 
paper  was  its  publisher,  printer,  business  manager,  and 
carrier.  The  last  duty  came  to  him  the  more  easily,  since 
in  addition  to  his  business  he  kept  cows,  and  had  to 
deliver  milk  every  morning  at  the  houses  of  citizens. 
But  this  did  not  prevent  him  in  any  way  from  beginning 
his  leading  political  articles  with  the  words :  "  If  our 
miserable  President  of  the  United  States  had  followed  the 
advice  which  we  gave  him  in  the  last  number,"  etc. 

As  we  see,  nothing  was  wanting  in  blessed  Struck  Oil 


522  A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

City.  Besides,  since  men  who  work  at  getting  oil  are  not 
distinguished  either  by  the  violence  or  rude  manners 
which  mark  gold-diggers,  it  was  peaceful  in  the  city. 
No  man  had  a  fight  with  another  ;  there  was  not  a  word 
spoken  of  "  lynching  ; "  life  flowed  on  calmly.  One  day 
was  as  much  like  another  as  one  drop  of  water  is  like 
another.  In  the  morning  every  man  occupied  himself 
with  "  business  ; "  in  the  evening  the  inhabitants  burned 
sweepings  on  the  street ;  and,  if  there  was  no  meeting, 
they  went  to  bed,  knowing  that  on  the  following  evening 
they  would  burn  sweepings  again. 

But  the  sheriff  was  annoyed  by  one  thing,  —  he  could 
not  break  the  citizens  from  firing  at  wild^  geese  which 
flew  over  the  place  in  the  evening.  The  laws  of  the  city 
prohibited  shooting  on  the  streets.  "  If  this  were  some 
mangy  little  village,"  said  the  sheriff,  "  I  would  n't  say 
anything ;  but  in  such  a  great  city  to  have  pif !  paf  !  pif  ! 
paf !  is  very  unbecoming." 

The  citizens  listened,  nodded,  and  answered,  "  Oh,  yes  ;  " 
but  in  the  evening  when  on  the  blushing  sky  the  white 
and  gray  lines  appeared,  stretching  from  the  mountains 
to  the  ocean,  every  man  forgot  his  promise,  seized  his 
carabine,  and  shooting  began  in  good  earnest. 

Mr.  Davis  might,  it  is  true,  have  summoned  each  tres- 
passer before  the  judge,  and  the  judge  could  punish  him 
with  a  fine  ;  but  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  offenders 
were  in  case  of  sickness  patients  of  the  doctor,  and  in 
case  of  broken  shoes  customers  of  the  sheriff;  since  then 
hand  washes  hand,  hand  did  not  offend  hand.  Hence,  it 
was  as  peaceful  in  Struck  Oil  City  as  in  heaven  ;  still, 
those  halcyon  days  had  a  sudden  end. 

A  man  who  kept  a  grocery  was  inflamed  with  mortal 
hatred  toward  a  woman  who  kept  a  grocery,  and  the 
woman  with  hatred  toward  him. 


A   COMEDY   OF  ERRORS.  523 

Here  it  may  be  needful  to  explain  what  that  is  which 
in  America  is  called  "  a  grocery."  A  grocery  is  a  place 
in  which  they  sell  goods  of  all  kinds.  In  a  grocery  you 
can  find  flour,  caps,  cigars,  brooms,  buttons,  rice,  sardines, 
stockings,  ham,  garden  seeds,  coats,  pantaloons,  lamp 
chimneys,  axes,  crackers,  crockery,  paper-collars,  dried 
fish ;  in  a  word,  everything  which  a  man  can  use. 

At  first  there  was  only  one  grocery  in  Struck  Oil  City. 
It  was  kept  by  a  German  named  Hans  Kasche.  He  was 
a  phlegmatic  German  from  Prussia,  thirty-five  years  of 
age,  and  had  staring  eyes  ;  he  was  not  fat,  but  portly ;  he 
went  about  always  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  never  let  the 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth.  He  knew  as  much  English  as 
was  needed  in  business ;  beyond  that  not  a  toothful. 
But  he  managed  his  business  well,  so  that  in  a  year  peo- 
ple said  in  Struck  Oil  City  that  he  was  worth  several 
thousand  dollars. 

On  a  sudden,  however,  a  second  grocery  was  opened. 

And  marvellous  thing !  a  German  man  kept  the  first 
grocery,  a  German  woman  established  the  second. 
Kunegunde  und  Eduard,  Eduard  und  Kunegunde ! 
Straightway  a  war  was  begun  between  the  two  sides ;  it 
began  from  this,  —  that  Miss  Neumann,  or,  as  she  called 
herself,  "  Miss  Newman,"  gave  at  her  opening  "  lunch " 
pancakes  baked  from  flour  mixed  with  soda  and  alum. 
She  would  have  injured  herself  in  the  highest  degree  by 
this  in  the  opinion  of  the  citizens,  were  it  not  that  she 
stated,  and  then  proved  by  witnesses,  that,  as  her  flour 
had  not  been  opened,  she  had  bought  this  from  Hans 
Kasche.  It  came  out  then  that  Hans  Kasche  was  an 
envious  man  and  a  villain,  who  wished  from  the  very 
first  to  ruin  his  rival  in  public  estimation.  Of  course, 
it  was  to  be  foreseen  that  the  two  groceries  would  be 
rivals ;  but  no  one  could  foresee  that  the  rivalry  would 


524  A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

pass  into  such  terrible  personal  hatred.  Soon  that  hatred 
increased  to  such  a  degree  that  Hans  burned  sweepings 
only  when  the  wind  blew  the  sinoke  from  his  shop  to 
that  of  his  rival ;  and  the  rival  had  no  other  name  for 
Hans  than  "Dutchman,"  which  he  considered  as  the 
greatest  insult. 

At  the  beginning,  the  citizens  laughed  at  both,  all  the 
more  since  neither  of  them  knew  English ;  gradually, 
however,  through  daily  relations  with  the  groceries,  two 
parties  were  formed  in  the  city,  —  the  Hansites  and  the 
Newmanites,  who  began  to  look  at  each  other  askance, 
which  might  have  injured  the  happiness  and  peace  of 
Struck  Oil  City,  and  brought  dreadful  complications  for 
the  future.  Mr.  Davis,  the  profound  politician,  was 
anxious  to  cure  the  evil  at  its  source ;  hence  he  strove  to 
reconcile  the  German  woman  with  the  German  man. 
More  than  once  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and 
said  to  them  in  their  native  tongue,  — 

"  Well,  why  do  you  fight  ?  Is  it  because  you  do  not 
patronize  the  same  shoemaker  ?  I  have  such  shoes  now 
that  in  all  San  Francisco  there  are  no  better." 

"  It  is  useless  to  recommend  shoes  to  him  who  will  be 
barefoot  before  long,"  replied  Miss  Newman,  sourly. 

"  I  do  not  win  credit  with  my  feet,"  answered  Hans, 
phlegmatically. 

And  it  is  necessary  to  know  that  Miss  Newman,  though 
a  German,  had  really  pretty  feet ;  therefore  such  a  taunt 
filled  her  heart  with  mortal  anger. 

In  the  city  the  two  parties  began  to  raise  the  question 
of  Hans  and  Miss  Newman ;  but  since  no  man  in  America 
can  obtain  justice  against  a  woman,  the  majority  inclined 
to  the  side  of  Miss  Newman. 

Soon  Hans  saw  that  his  grocery  was  barely  paying 
expenses. 


A  COMEDY   OF  ERRORS.  525 

But  Miss  Newman  too  did  not  win  such  brilliant 
victories,  for  soon  all  the  married  women  in  the  city  took 
the  side  of  Hans,  for  they  noticed  that  their  husbands 
made  purchases  too  often  from  the  fair  German,  and  sat 
too  long  at  each  purchase. 

When  no  one  was  in  either  shop,  Hans  and  Miss 
Newman  stood  in  their  doors,  one  opposite  the  other, 
casting  mutual  glances  filled  with  venom.  Miss  Newman 
sang  at  such  times  to  herself  to  the  air  of  "  Mein  lieber 
Augustin,"  — 

"  Dutchman,  Dutchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman  !  " 

Hans  looked  at  her  feet,  at  her  figure,  at  her  face  with 
an  expression  such  as  he  would  have  had  in  looking  at  a 
coyote  killed  outside  the  city;  then,  bursting  into 
demonic  laughter,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  Mein  Gott  !  " 

Hatred  in  that  phlegmatic  man  rose  to  such  a  pitch 
that  when  he  appeared  at  the  door  in  the  morning,  and 
Miss  Newman  was  not  there,  he  was  as  fidgety  as  if 
he  missed  something. 

There  would  have  been  active  collisions  between  them 
long  before,  were  it  not  that  Hans  was  sure  of  defeat  in 
every  official  decision,  and  that  all  the  more  since  Miss 
Newman  had  on  her  side  the  editor  of  the  "  Saturday 
Weekly  Review."  Hans  convinced  himself  of  this  when 
he  spread  the  report  that  Miss  Newman  wore  a  false 
bust.  That  was  even  likely,  for  in  America  it  is  a  com- 
mon custom.  But  on  the  following  week  there  appeared 
in  the  "  Saturday  Weekly  Review  "  a  thundering  article, 
in  which  the  editor,  speaking  generally  of  the  slanders  of 
"  Dutchmen,"  ended  with  the  solemn  assurance  "  of  one 
well  informed  "  that  the  bust  of  a  certain  slandered  lady 
is  genuine. 


526  A  COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

From  that  day  forward  Hans  drank  black  coffee  every 
morning  instead  of  white,  for  he  would  take  milk  no 
longer  from  that  editor ;  but  to  make  up  for  the  loss, 
Miss  Newman  took  milk  for  two.  Moreover,  she  ordered 
at  the  dressmaker's  a  robe,  which,  by  the  cut  of  its 
bosom,  proved  convincingly  to  all  that  Hans  was  a 
slanderer. 

Hans  felt  defenceless  before  woman's  cunning ;  mean- 
while his  opponent,  standing  before  her  shop  every  morn- 
ing, sang  louder  and  louder,  — 

"  Dutchman,  Dutchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman  !  " 

"  What  arn  I  to  do  ?  "  thought  Hans.  "  I  have  wheat 
poisoned  for  rats ;  let  me  poison  her  hens  with  it  ?  No, 
the  justice  would  sentence  me  to  pay  for  them.  But  I 
know  what  to  do." 

And  in  the  evening  Miss  Newman,  to  her  great  aston- 
ishment, saw  Hans  carrying  bunches  of  wild  sunflowers, 
and  laying  them  out  as  if  in  a  row  under  the  barred 
window  of  his  cellar.  "  I  am  curious  to  know  what 
is  coming,"  thought  she  to  herself,  —  "  surely  something 
against  me."  Meanwhile  night  came.  Hans  had  put  the 
sunflowers  in  two  rows,  so  that  only  between  them  was 
there  an  open  path  to  the  window  of  the  cellar ;  then  he 
brought  some  object  covered  with  cloth,  and  turned  his 
back  to  Miss  Newman.  He  took  the  cloth  from  the 
mysterious  object,  covered  it  with  sunflower  leaves,  then 
approached  the  wall,  and  began  to  make  certain  letters  on 
it. 

Miss  Newman  was  dying  with  curiosity.  "  Of  course  he 
is  writing  something  about  me,"  thought  she ;  "  but  only 
let  all  go  to  sleep,  1 11  walk  over  there  and  see,  even  if  it 
kills  me." 

When  Hans  had  finished  his  work,  he  went  upstairs, 


A   COMEDY   OF  ERRORS.  527 

and  soon  after  put  his  light  out.  Then  Miss  Newman 
threw  on  her  wrapper  quickly,  put  slippers  on  her  bare 
feet,  and  went  across  the  street.  When  she  came  to  the 
sunflowers,  she  went  straight  to  the  window,  wishing  to 
read  the  writing  on  the  wall.  Suddenly  the  eyes  went 
up  into  her  head ;  she  threw  back  the  upper  half  of  her 
body,  and  from  her  mouth  came  with  pain,  "  Ei !  ei ! " 
then  the  despairing  cry,  "  Help  !  help  !  " 

The  window  above  was  raised.  "  Was  ist  das  ? "  was 
heard  in  the  quiet  voice  of  Hans.  "  Was  ist  das  ?  " 

"Cursed  Dutchman,"  screamed  the  lady,  "you  have 
murdered  me,  destroyed  me  !  You  '11  hang  to-morrow. 
Help!  help!" 

"  I  '11  come  down  right  away,"  said  Hans. 

In  fact  he  appeared  after  a  while  with  a  light  in  his 
hand.  He  looked  at  Miss  Newman,  who  was  as  if 
spiked  to  the  earth  ;  then  he  caught  his  sides,  and  began 
to  laugh. 

"  What  is  this  ?  Miss  Newman  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Good 
evening,  Miss  Newman !  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  I  put  out  a 
skunk-trap,  and  caught  Miss  Newman.  Why  did  you 
come  to  look  at  my  cellar  ?  I  wrote  a  notice  on  the  wall 
to  keep  away.  Scream  now ;  let  people  crowd  up  here  ; 
let  all  see  that  you  come  at  night  to  look  into  the 
Dutchman's  cellar.  0  mein  Gott !  Cry  away  ;  but  stay 
there  till  morning.  Good-by,  Miss  Newman,  good-by  !  " 

The  position  of  Miss  Newman  was  dreadful.  If  she 
screamed,  people  would  collect,  —  she  would  be  compro- 
mised ;  if  she  did  n't  cry,  she  'd  stay  all  night  caught  in 
a  trap,  and  next  day  make  a  show  of  herself.  And  there 
her  foot  was  paining  her  more  and  more.  Her  head 
whirled,  around ;  the  stars  were  confused  with  one 
another,  and  the  moon  with  the  ominous  face  of  Hans 
Kasche.  She  fainted. 


528  A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

"  fferr  Je!  "  cried  Hans  to  himself,  "  if  she  dies,  they 
will  lynch  me  in  the  morning  without  trial;"  and  the 
hair  rose  on  his  head  from  terror. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  Hans  looked  for  his  key  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  open  the  trap  ;  but  it  was  n't  easy 
to  open  it,  for  Miss  Newman's  wrapper  was  in  the  way. 
He  had  to  put  it  aside  somewhat ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  his 
hatred  and  fear,  Hans  couldn't  help  casting  an  eye  at  the 
feet  beautiful  as  if  of  marble,  —  those  feet  of  his  enemy 
lighted  by  the  red  gleam  of  the  moon. 

A  man  might  say  that  in  his  hatred  then  there  was 
compassion.  He  opened  the  trap  quickly  ;  and,  since 
Miss  Newman  made  no  movement,  he  took  her  in  his 
arms,  and  carried  her  to  her  dwelling.  On  the  way  he 
felt  compassion  again.  Then  he  went  home,  and  could  n't 
close  an  eye  all  that  night. 

Next  morning  Miss  Newman  did  not  appear  before  her 
grocery  to  sing,  — 

"  Dutchman,  Dutchman.  Du-u-u-u-tchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman  I  " 

Maybe  that  she  was  ashamed,  and  maybe  that  in  silence 
she  was  forging  revenge. 

It  turned  out  that  she  was  forging  revenge.  On  the 
evening  of  that  same  day  the  editor  of  the  "  Saturday 
Weekly  Eeview  "  challenged  Hans  to  fight  with  fists,  and 
at  the  very  beginning  of  the  battle  he  gave  him  a  black 
eye.  But  Hans,  brought  to  despair,  gave  so  many  ter- 
rible blows  to  the  editor  that,  after  a  short  and  vain 
opposition,  the  editor  fell  his  whole  length,  crying, 
"  Enough  !  Enough  !  " 

It  is  unknown  by  what  means,  —  for  it  was  n't  through 
Hans,  —  the  whole  city  heard  about  the  night  adventure 
of  Miss  Newman.  After  the  fight  with  the  editor,  com- 


A   COMEDY   OF    ERRORS.  529 

passion  for  his  enemy  vanished  again  from  Hans's  heart, 
and  there  remained  only  hatred. 

Hans  Kasche  had  a  foreboding  that  some  unexpected 
blow  would  strike  him  from  the  hated  hand.  In  fact  he 
'did  not  have  to  wait  long.  Grocery-keepers  paste  up  on 
their  shops  advertisements  of  various  articles  entitled 
usually  "  Notice."  Besides,  it  is  necessary  to  know  that 
usually  they  sell  ice  to  saloon-keepers,  —  without  ice  no 
American  drinks  either  whiskey  or  beer.  All  at  once 
Hans  noticed  that  people  stopped  taking  ice  of  him.  The 
immense  blocks,  which  he  had  brought  b}r  railroad  and 
put  in  the  cellar,  thawed  ;  there  was  a  loss  of  several 
dollars.  Why  was  that  ?  How  was  it  ?  Hans  saw  that 
even  his  partisans  bought  ice  every  day  from  Miss  New- 
man ;  he  did  n't  know  what  this  meant,  especially  since 
he  had  not  quarrelled  with  a  single  saloon-keeper.  He 
determined  to  clear  up  the  matter. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  ice  of  me  ? "  asked  he,  in  broken 
English,  of  a  saloon-keeper,  Peters,  who  was  just  passing 
his  grocery. 

"  Because  you  don't  keep  any." 

"  Why  don't  I  keep  any  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ? " 

"  Aber  I  keep  it." 

"  But  what  is  that  ? "  asked  the  saloon-keeper,  pointing 
to  the  notice  stuck  up  on  the  grocery. 

Hans  looked,  and  grew  green  from  rage ;  from  his 
"  Notice  "  some  one  has  scratched  out  the  letter  t  from 
the  middle  of  the  word,  in  consequence  of  which  "  Notice  " 
became  "  No  ice." 

"  Donnerwetter  !  "  screamed  Hans,  and  all  blue  and  trem- 
bling, he  rushed  to  Miss  Newman's  grocery. 

"  That 's  scoundrelism  ! "  cried  he,  foaming  at  the  mouth. 
"  Why  did  you  scratch  out  a  letter  in  the  middle  from  me  ?  " 

34 


530  A   COMEDY   OF  ERRORS. 

"  What  did  I  scratch  out  from  you  in  the  middle  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Newman,  with  a  look  of  innocence. 

"  The  letter  t,  I  say.  You  scratched  out  t  from  me ! 
Aber  Gottam !  this  cannot  last  longer.  You  must  pay 
me  for  that  ice,  Miss  Newman !  Gottam !  Gottam ! " 

And  losing  his  ordinary  cool  blood,  he  began  to  roar 
like  a  madman,  whereupon  Miss  Newman  fell  to  scream- 
ing ;  people  flew  together  in  a  crowd. 

"  Help ! "  cried  Miss  Newman.  "  The  Dutchman  is 
raving  !  He  says  that  I  scratched  something  out  of  his 
middle,  and  I  haven't  scratched  anything  from  him. 
What  was  I  to  scratch  ?  I  have  n't  scratched  anything. 
In  God's  name  !  I  'd  scratch  his  eyes  out  if  I  could,  but 
nothing  else.  I  am  a  poor  lone  woman !  he  '11  kill  me, 
he  '11  murder  me  ! " 

Screaming  in  this  way,  she  covered  herself  with  hot 
tears.  The  Americans  did  n't  know,  in  fact,  what  the 
question  was ;  but  Americans  will  not  endure  woman's 
tears ;  therefore  they  took  the  German  by  the  neck,  and 
through  the  door  with  him.  He  wanted  to  resist ;  little 
use  in  that !  he  flew  as  out  of  a  sling,  flew  through  the 
street,  flew  through  his  own  door,  and  dropped  at  full 
length. 

A  week  later  there  hung  an  immense  painted  sign  on 
his  shop.     The  sign  represented  an  ape  in  a  striped  dress, 
with  a  white  apron  and  shoulder  straps,  —  in  one  word, 
exactly  like  Miss  Newman.    Underneath  stood  an  inscrip-. 
tion  in  great  golden  letters,  — 

"GROCERY   UNDER   THE  APE." 

The  people  collected  to  look  at  it.  Their  laughter 
brought  Miss  Newman  to  the  door.  She  came  out,  looked, 
grew  pale,  but  without  losing  presence  of  mind  called  out 
at  once,  — 


A   COMEDY   OF  ERRORS.  531 

"  Grocery  under  the  ape  ?  No  wonder,  for  Hans  Kasche 
lives  over  the  grocery.  Ha  !  " 

The  blow  however  pierced  her  to  the  heart.  In  the 
afternoon  she  heard  how  crowds  of  children  passing  the 
grocery  on  their  way  from  school,  and  stopping  before 
the  sign,  cried,  — 

"  Oh,  that 's  Miss  Newman !  Good  evening,  Miss 
Newman ! " 

This  was  too  much.  In  the  evening  when  the  editor 
came  to  her,  she  said  to  him, — 

"  That  ape  means  me,  I  know  that ;  but  I  will  not  give 
up  my  own.  He  must  take  down  that  ape  and  lick  it  off 
before  me  with  his  own  tongue." 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  do,  Miss  Newman  ? " 

"  I  '11  go  this  minute  to  the  judge." 

"  How  this  minute  ? " 

"  To-morrow." 

In  the  morning  she  went  out,  and  walking  up  to  Hans, 
said,  — 

"  Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Dutchman,  I  know  that  that  ape 
means  me.  Come  with  me  to  the  judge.  We  '11  see  what 
he  '11  say  to  this." 

"  He  will  say  that  I  am  free  to  paint  on  my  shop  what 
I  like." 

"  We  '11  see  about  that  very  soon."  Miss  Newman  was 
hardly  able  to  breathe. 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  that  ape  means  you  ? " 

"  Conscience  tells  me.  Come,  come  to  the  judge ;  if  not, 
the  sheriff  will  take  you  in  chains." 

"  Very  well,  I  '11  go,"  said  Hans,  certain  of  victory. 

They  shut  up  their  groceries  and  went,  meditating  for 
themselves  along  the  road.  Only  wnen  they  were  at 
Judge  Dasonville's  door  did  they  remember  that  neither 
of  them  knew  English  enough  to  explain  the  affair. 


532  A  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 

What  were  they  to  do  ?  The  sheriff,  being  a  Polish  Jew, 
knew  German  and  English.  They  went  to  the  sheriff; 
but  the  sheriff  was  just  getting  into  his  wagon  to  drive 
off. 

"  Go  to  the  devil ! "  said  he,  in  a  hurry.  "  The  whole 
city  is  disturbed  by  you !  You  wear  the  same  shoes 
whole  years  !  I  am  going  for  lumber.  Good-by  ! "  And 
he  drove  away. 

Hans  put  his  hands  on  his  hips.  "  You  must  wait  till 
to-morrow,"  said  he,  phlegmatically. 

"  I  wait  ?  I  'd  die  first,  unless  you  take  down  the 
ape." 

"  I  won't  take  it  down." 

"  You  '11  hang,  Dutchman.  We  '11  do  without  the 
sheriff.  The  judge  knows  already  what  the  matter  is." 

"  We  '11  go  without  the  sheriff,"  said  the  German. 

Miss  Newman  was  mistaken,  however.  The  judge  was 
the  only  man  in  the  whole  city  who  did  n't  know  one 
word  of  their  quarrels.  The  old  man  was  busy  in  pre- 
paring his  leroa,  and  thought  he  was  saving  the  world. 
He  received  them  as  he  received  every  one  usually,  with 
kindness  and  politely. 

"  Show  your  tongues,  my  children  ! "  said  he  ;  "I  will 
prescribe  for  you  this  minute." 

Both  waved  their  hands  in  sign  that  they  did  n't  want 
medicine.  Miss  Newman  repeated,  "Not  that,  not 
that ! " 

"  What  then  ? " 

They  interrupted  each  other.  When  Hans  said  a  word 
the  lady  said  ten.  At  last  she  fell  upon  the  idea  of 
pointing  to  her  heart  as  a  sign  that  Hans  had  offended 
her  mortally. 

"  I  understand !  I  understand  now  ! "  cried  the 
doctor. 


A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS.  533 

Then  he  opened  his  book  and  began  to  write.  He 
asked  Hans  how  old  he  was,  —  thirty-six.  He  asked  the 
lady;  she  didn't  remember  exactly,  —  something  about 
twenty-five.  All  right !  What  were  their  names  ? 
Hans,  —  Lora.  All  right !  What  was  their  occupation  ? 
They  kept  grocery.  All  right!  Then  other  questions. 
Neither  of  them  understood,  but  they  answered  yes. 
The  doctor  nodded.  All  was  over. 

He  stopped  writing,  rose  on  a  sudden,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  Lora  put  his  arm  around  her  waist  and 
kissed  her.  She  took  this  as  a  good  omen,  and  went 
home  full  of  rosy  hopes. 

On  the  road  she  said  to  Hans,  "  I  '11  show  you  ! " 

"  You  '11  show  some  one  else,"  said  the  German,  calmly. 

Next  morning  the  sheriff  passed  in  front  of  the 
groceries.  The  German  man  and  woman  were  before 
their  own  doors.  Hans  was  smoking  his  pipe,  and  Miss 
Newman  was  singing,  — 

"  Dutchman,  Dutchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman,  Du-u-u-u-tchman  !  " 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  the  justice  ?  "  asked  the  sheriff. 

"  We  have  been  there." 

«  Well,  and  what  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sheriff !  My  dear  Mr.  Davis !  "  cried  Miss 
Newman,  "go  and  find  out.  I  just  need  some  shoes  ;  and 
speak  a  word  for  me  to  the  justice.  You  see  I  am  a  poor, 
lone  woman." 

The  sheriff  went,  and  came  back  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  But  it  is  unknown  why  he  was  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  people. 

"  Well,  what  ?  how  was  it  ? "  both  began  to  inquire. 

"All  is  right,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"Well,  what  did  the  justice  do?" 

"  Well,  what  harm  had  he  to  do  ?     He  married  you." 


534  A   COMEDY   OF  ERRORS. 

"  Married ! " 

"  Well,  don't  people  marry  ? " 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  burst  on  a  sudden,  Hans  and 
Miss  Newman  would  n't  have  been  astonished  to  that 
degree.  Hans  stared,  opened  his  mouth,  hung  out  his 
tongue,  and  looked  like  a  fool  at  Miss  Newman ;  Miss 
Newman  stared,  opened  her  mouth,  hung  out  her  tongue, 
and  looked  like  a  fool  at  Hans.  They  were  petrified. 
Then  both  screamed,  — 

"Am  I  to  be  his  wife?" 

"  Am  I  to  be  her  husband  ? " 

"  Murder  !  murder  !  Never !  A  divorce  right  away  ! 
I  won't  have  a  marriage  ! " 

"No,  it 's  I  that  won't  have  it ! " 

"  I  '11  die  first !  murder  !     A  divorce,  a  divorce  ! " 

"My  dears,"  said  the  sheriff,  quietly,  "what  good  will 
screaming  do  you  ?  The  judge  marries,  but  the  judge 
cannot  divorce.  What 's  the  use  in  screaming  ?  Are 
you  millionnaires  from  San  Francisco,  to  get  a  divorce ; 
or  don't  you  know  what  that  costs  ?  Ai !  What 's  the 
use  in  screaming  ?  I  have  nice  children's  shoes  for  sale 
cheap.  Good-by  1 " 

When  he  had  said  that  he  went  away.  The  people 
too  went  away  laughing;  the  newly  married  remained 
alone. 

"  That  Frenchman,"  cried  the  married  lady,  "  did  this 
purposely,  because  we  are  Germans." 

"  Rich  tig  [correct] ,"  answered  Hans. 

"  But  we  '11  go  for  a  divorce." 

"  I  first !     You  took  me  that  t  from  the  middle." 

"  No  !     I  '11  go  first !     You  caught  me  in  the  trap." 

"  I  don't  want  you." 

"  I  can't  bear  you." 

They  separated   and  closed  their  shops.     She  sat  at 


A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS.  535 

home  thinking  all  day  ;  he  sat  at  home.  Night  came. 
Night  brought  no  rest ;  neither  could  think  of  sleep. 
They  lay  down,  but  their  eyes  would  not  close.  He 
thought,  "  My  wife  is  sleeping  over  there ; "  she,  "  My 
husband  is  sleeping  over  there."  And  some  strange  feel- 
ing rose  in  their  hearts.  It  was  hatred,  anger,  together 
with  a  feeling  of  loneliness.  Besides,  Hans  began  to  think 
of  the  ape  on  his  grocery.  How  keep  it  there  when  it 
was  now  a  caricature  of  his  wife  ?  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  played  a  very  ugly  trick  when  he  gave  an  order 
to  paint  the  ape.  But  again  that  Miss  Newman !  But 
he  hates  her ;  through  her  his  ice  thawed ;  he  caught  her 
during  moonlight  in  a  trap.  Here  again  those  outlines 
came  to  his  mind,  which  he  saw  in  the  moonlight.  "  But, 
really,  she  is  a  brave  girl,"  thought  he.  "  But  she  can't 
stand  me  and  I  can't  stand  her.  That 's  a  position ! 
Ach !  Jfferr  Oott !  I  am  married.  To  whom  ?  To  Miss 
Newman !  And  here  a  divorce  costs  so  much  that  the 
whole  grocery  would  n't  pay  for  it." 

"  I  am  the  wife  of  that  Dutchman,"  said  Miss  Newman 
to  herself.  "  I  'm  no  longer  a  maiden,  —  that  is,  I  mean 
to  say  single,  —  but  married  !  To  whom  ?  To  Kasche, 
who  caught  me  in  a  trap.  It  is  true  that  he  took  me  up 
and  brought  me  home.  And  how  strong  he  is !  Just 
took  me  up.  —  What 's  that  ?  Is  there  some  noise 
here?" 

There  was  no  noise  whatever;  but  Miss  Newman 
began  to  be  afraid,  though  up  to  that  time  she  had  never 
been  afraid. 

"  But  if  he  should  dare  now  —  O  God  —  "  Then  she 
added,  with  a  voice  in  which  was  heard  a  certain  strange 
note  of  disappointment,  "  But  he  won't  dare.  He  —  " 

With  all  that  her  fear  increased.  "That's  always 
the  way  with  a  lone  woman,"  thought  she.  "If  there 


536  A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

was  a  man  in  the  house  it  would  be  safer.  I  Ve  heard 
of  murders  in  the  neighborhood  [Miss  Newman  had 
not  heard  of  murders].  I  swear  that  if  they  kill  me 
here  —  Ah,  that  Kasche  !  that  Kasche !  has  stopped 
my  road.  But  it 's  necessary  to  take  measures  for  a 
divorce." 

Thinking  thus  she  turned  sleeplessly  on  her  wide 
American  bed,  and  really  felt  very  lonely.  She  sprang 
up  again  suddenly.  This  time  her  fear  had  a  real  foun- 
dation. In  the  silence  of  night  was  heard  distinctly  the 
pounding  of  a  hammer. 

"  Heaven  !  "  cried  Miss  Newman,  "  they  are  breaking 
into  my  grocery  ! " 

She  sprang  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the  window ;  but 
when  she  looked  out  she  was  at  rest  in  a  moment.  By 
the  light  of  the  moon  a  ladder  was  visible,  and  on  it  the 
portly  white  figure  of  Hans  drawing  with  a  hammer  the 
nails  fastening  the  sign  of  the  ape. 

Miss  Newman  opened  the  window  quietly. 

"  He  is  taking  down  the  ape,  —  that  is  honorable  on 
his  part,"  thought  she.  And  she  felt  all  at  once  as  if 
something  were  melting  around  her  heart. 

Hans  drew  out  the  nails  one  after  another.  The  plate 
fell  to  the  ground  with  a  rattle ;  then  he  came  down, 
took  off  the  frame,  folded  up  the  plate  in  his  strong  hands, 
and  began  to  remove  the  ladder. 

Miss  Newman  followed  him  with  her  eyes.  The  night 
was  quiet  and  warm. 

"  Herr  Hans,"  called  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  are  not  sleeping  ? "  answered  Hans,  in  an  equally 
low  tone. 

"No;  good  evening,  Herr." 

"  G-ood  evening." 

"  What  are  you  doing  ? '' 


A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS.  537 

"  Taking  down  the  ape." 

"  Thank  you,  Herr  Hans." 

A  moment  of  silence. 

"  Herr  Hans,"  said  the  maiden  again. 

"  What  is  it,  Fraulein  Lora  ?  " 

"  We  must  arrange  for  the  divorce." 

"  Yes." 

"  To-morrow  ? " 

"  To-morrow." 

A  moment  of  silence ;  the  moon  was  laughing,  the  dogs 
not  barking. 

"  Herr  Hans  !  " 

"  What,  Fraulein  Lora  ? " 

"  I  should  like  to  have  that  divorce  right  away."  Her 
voice  had  a  melancholy  tone. 

"  I  too,  Fraulein  Lora."     His  voice  was  sad. 

"  So  there  should  be  no  delay,  you  see." 

"Better  not  delay." 

"  The  sooner  we  talk  the  question  over  the  better.'* 

"  The  better,  Fra'ulein  Lora." 

"  Then  we  may  talk  it  over  right  away." 

"  If  you  permit." 

"  Then  come  over  here." 

"  Only  let  me  dress." 

"  No  need  of  ceremony." 

The  door  below  opened.  Herr  Hans  vanished  in  the 
darkness,  and  after  a  while  found  himself  in  the  young 
woman's  chamber,  which  was  quiet,  warm,  tidy.  She 
wore  a  white  dressing-gown,  and  was  enchanting. 

"  I  am  listening  to  you,"  said  Hans,  with  a  broken,  soft 
voice. 

"But,  you  see,  I  should  like  very  much  to  get  a 
divorce,  but  —  I  am  afraid  somebody  on  the  street  will 
see  us." 


538  A   COMEDY   OF   ERRORS. 

"  But  it  is  dark  in  the  window,"  said  Hans. 
u  Ah,  that  is  true  ! "  answered  she. 
Thereupon   began  a   conversation   concerning   divorce 
which  does  not  belong  to  this  narrative. 
Peace  returned  to  Struck  Oil  City. 


A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS. 


A  JOURNEY  TO   ATHENS. 

IN  leaving  Stambul  for  Athens  on  the  French  steamer 
Donnai,  I  had  before  me  the  most  beautiful  view 
which  it  is  possible  to  have  in  the  world.  The  sky, 
rainy  for  a  number  of  weeks,  had  at  last  become  per- 
fectly clear,  and  was  reddened  with  a  splendid  evening. 
The  neighboring  Asiatic  shore  was  flooded  with  light ; 
the  Bosphorus  and  Golden  Horn  looked  like  gigantic 
ribbons  of  fire ;  Pera,  Galata,  Stambul,  with  their  towers 
and  domes,  and  minarets  of  mosques,  were  sunk  in  purple 
and  gold. 

The  Donnai  turned  her  prow  toward  the  Sea  of  Mar- 
mora and  began  to  stir  the  water  lightly,  pushing  with 
care  through  the  crowd  of  steamers,  sailing  vessels,  small 
boats,  and  kayuks.  Constantinople  is  one  of  the  best 
anchoring  places  in  Europe,  and  at  the  foot  of  this  city, 
which  from  its  steep  slopes  rules  over  two  seas,  there  is 
another  crowded  city  of  ships.  As  over  the  first  one 
tower  minarets,  over  the  second  tower  masts,  on  these 
masts  is  a  rainbow  of  flags,  and  this  lower  city  is  not  less 
noisy  than  the  other.  Here,  as  well  as  there,  is  a  mix- 
ture of  tongues,  races,  complexions,  garments.  One  sees 
here  all  types  of  men  who  inhabit  the  adjoining  three 
parts  of  the  earth,  beginning  with  Englishmen,  and  end- 
ing with  those  half-savage  dwellers  of  Asia  Minor,  who 
have  come  to  the  capital  to  earn  a  morsel  of  bread,  as 
"  kayukjis." 

We  passed  the  point  on  which  stands  the  old  Serai. 


542  A   JOURNEY    TO   ATHENS. 

Pera,  Galata,  and  Stambul  began  to  merge  into  one  ter- 
raced city,  the  borders  of  which  the  eye  could  not  reach. 
Neither  Naples  nor  any  other  place  on  earth  can  com- 
pare with  that  magnificent  panorama.  All  descriptions, 
from  those  of  Lamartine  to  those  of  De  Amicis,  are 
simply  pale  reflections  of  reality,  for  the  words  of  men 
are  but  sound,  hence  unable  to  present  to  us  either  colors 
or  those  forms,  now  slender  and  aerial,  now  immense  and 
tremendous.  At  times  it  seemed  that  a  whole  city  of 
enchanted  palaces  was  hanging  in  the  air ;  then  again  I 
was  under  the  impression  of  such  majesty,  greatness,  and 
might,  as  if  from  that  city  terror  were  still  going  forth 
over  Europe,  and  as  if  in  the  tower  of  the  Seraskierat 
to-day,  just  as  in  past  times,  the  fates  of  the  world  were 
in  balance. 

From  the  Sea  of  Marmora  the  naked  eye  could  dis- 
tinguish only  the  larger  buildings,  that  is,  the  old  Serai,  a 
part  of  the  walls  of  the  Seven-towered  Castle,  Saint 
Sophia,  Suleimanie,  and  the  tower  of  the  Seraskierat. 
The  foundations  of  the  city  seemed  to  sink  slowly ; 
first  the  encircling  walls  hid  themselves,  then  the  lower 
rows  of  houses,  then  the  higher,  then  the  mosques 
and  their  domes.  The  city  seemed  to  be  drowning.  It 
was  growing  dark  in  the  sky,  but  on  the  arrow-like 
minarets  the  last  ruddy  and  golden  gleams  were  still  fall- 
ing. One  might  have  said  that  they  were  a  thousand 
gigantic  torches  burning  above  a  city  now  invisible. 

That  is  the  hour  in  which  the  muezzins  go  out  on  the 
balconies  of  minarets  and  call  the  faithful  to  prayer, 
announcing  to  the  four  corners  of  the  world  that  God  is 
great  and  that  God's  night  is  coming  down  to  us. 

In  fact  night  was  coming,  not  only  God's  night,  but  a 
serene  and  a  starry  one.  Night  is  a  time  for  meditation ; 
and  because  the  fates  of  future  peace  or  war  are  weighed 


A  JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS.  543 

really  in  the  neighborhood  of  these  straits,  it  is  difficult 
to  keep  from  political  soothsaying.  Still  I  will  not 
occupy  myself  with  it. 

Let  the  daily  papers  do  that  work.  Should  future 
events  give  the  lie  to  them,  they  will  not  be  disgusted,  I 
think,  with  their  specialty.  To  me,  as  a  novelist,  comes 
a  thought  more  literary  in  character,  which,  moreover,  I 
throw  out  in  parenthesis. 

Well,  it  occurs  to  me  that  those  gleams  of  the  evening, 
those  flaming  waters,  those  palaces  and  minarets  bathed 
in  gold  and  purple,  are  something  as  real  and  actual  as  the 
dead  dogs  lying  by  tens  on  the  streets  of  Stambul.  But 
there  are  novelists  of  a  certain  school,  especially  those 
forming  the  gray  end  of  it,  who  prefer  the  description  of 
dead  dogs,  to  the  no  less  real  sunsets,  blue  expanses  of  the 
sea,  and  other  wonderful  aspects  of  nature.  Why  is  this  ? 
Of  course  there  are  various  causes,  but  among  them 
doubtless  is  this  one,  that  to  depict  the  beautiful  in  all  its 
splendor  a  man  needs  more  power  and  more  colors  on 
his  palette  than  to  depict  the  disgusting,  and  that  in 
general  it  is  easier  to  make  a  man's  mouth  water  than  to 
move  his  soul. 

But  I  have  no  thought  of  raising  a  polemic,  hence  I 
touch  these  thing  only  in  passing ;  now  I  shall  follow  the 
course  of  the  steamer. 

Mail  steamers  leaving  Stambul  in  the  evening  are  in 
the  Dardanelles  at  dawn,  with  daylight  they  enter  the 
Archipelago.  We  are  in  the  Dardanelles  then.  Our 
steamer  pushes  forward  between  two  shores  lying  close 
to  each  other;  on  those  shores  fortresses  are  visible  and 
the  black  jaws  of  cannon  which  look  forth  from  both 
sides  at  the  straits.  After  a  while  we  stop,  for  the 
steamer  before  issuing  from  that  gorge  must  show  papers 
and  clear  itself :  whence  has  it  come  and  whither  is  it 


544  A   JOURNEY   TO    ATHENS. 

sailing  ?  The  shores  appear  barren,  covered  with  cliffs 
which  crumble,  are  ground  fine  and  piled  into  stone 
drifts.  The  whole  landscape  is  melancholy  and  sterile, 
though  the  sun  is  just  rising  and  sculptures  every  out- 
line beautifully.  The  straits  themselves  are  narrower 
than  the  Bosphorus,  or  even  the  Vistula.  On  the  right 
side  the  houses  of  Gallipoli  stand  out  in  whiteness  ;  their 
squalor  and  misery  is  evident  even  from  afar.  And 
again  the  question  occurs  to  one,  which  in  the  East 
occurs  almost  everywhere,  —  in  Eustchuk,  in  Varna,  in 
Burgas,  in  Stambul  itself :  Are  these  the  countries  for 
which  human  blood  has  been  spilt  in  quantity  sufficient 
to  fill  the  whole  straits  ?  Is  it  for  these  half-ruined  cities, 
inhabited  by  semi-pauperous  people,  for  those  barren 
plains  and  sterile  cliffs,  that  millions  are  expended  and 
immense  armies  supported ;  that  the  lives  of  generations 
of  people  pass  in  uncertainty  of  the  day  and  hour  ?  In 
the  Dardanelles  more  than  in  any  place  must  a  man 
give  himself  this  question.  There  are  regions  whose 
main  expression  is  wildness  or  melancholy ;  but  I  have 
never  seen  a  landscape  which  said  so  clearly  :  I  am  age 
and  exhaustion  ;  I  am  abandonment  and  'misery  !  And 
still  in  those  straits  lies  the  heart  of  the  whole  question. 
It  is  not  so  much  a  question  of  the  Bosphorus,  or  of 
Tsargrad 1  itself,  as  it  is  of  the  Dardanelles.  That  narrow 
shaft  of  water,  that  rocky  corridor,  is  the  one  window  and 
also  the  door  leading  from  regions  behind  to  the  world. 

"  Have  you  read  of  those  cords,"  said  to  me  a  fellow- 
traveller,  an  Englishman,  "  which  the  Sultans  used  to 
send  on  a  time  to  Grand  Viziers,  or  unsuccessful  com- 
manders ?  These  straits  are  such  cords  ;  it  is  possible  to 
choke  the  Black  Sea  with  them,  and  even  Constantinople 
itself." 

1  Constantinople,  the  Tsar's  city. 


A  JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS.  545 

Meanwhile  we  sailed  out  into  the  Archipelago,  to  that 
famous  sea  which  the  ancient  Greeks  called  a  picture  of 
the  heavens,  for  it  is  dotted  with  islands  as  the  heavens 
are  dotted  with  stars.  It  is  for  this  reason  likely  that 
they  named  it  Arch-sea.  Soon  we  saw  the  cliffs  of  Lemnos 
in  front  of  us,  the  first  island  that  is  seen  after  issuing 
from  the  Dardanelles.  Nothing  in  the  north  is  delineated 
with  definiteness  equal  to  that  of  pearly  Imbros ;  on  the 
other  side,  nearer  the  Asiatic  shore,  stands  Tenedos,  on 
which  the  standard  of  the  Prophet  still  waves,  but  above 
the  whole  Archipelago  floats  the  soul  of  ancient  Greece, 
with  its  songs  and  traditions.  Under  the  influence  of 
such  memories,  perhaps,  these  shores  seem  somehow  dif- 
ferent from  all  others  which  we  see  before  coming  here, 
and  they  answer  to  the  outlines  in  which  imagination 
paints  the  Grecian  shores.  Everything  visible  is  naked, 
barren,  just  as  it  is  near  the  Dardanelles,  —  neither  tree 
nor  human  habitation ;  the  region  is  gray  olive  in  color, 
as  if  sunburnt  and  faded,  but  extended  in  long  and  bold 
direct  lines  like  the  prototypes  of  Doric  architecture. 
One  hill  rears  itself  above  another ;  here  and  there  the 
peak  of  some  height  peers  up,  hardly  visible  in  the  blue 
curtain  of  distance ;  farther  on,  the  background  is  en- 
tirely concealed.  Above  all  is  a  simple  and  dignified 
melancholy.  Once,  according  to  tradition,  the  hammers 
of  Hephaistos  pounded  in  the  volcano  of  Lemnos.  Per- 
haps it  was  here  that  he  forged  the  famous  shield  of 
Achilles  ?  To-day  the  crater  of  Mosychlos  is  silent,  for 
the  volcano  is  extinct ;  tradition  has  outlived  the  volcano 
and  even  the  god. 

On  the  right  and  the  left  appear  islands  continually; 
with  the  enumeration  of  these  I  shall  not  trouble  the 
memory  or  attention  of  any  man.  The  eye  sees  farther 
on  the  Archipelago  than  on  other  European  waters. 

35 


546  A  JOURNEY  TO   ATHENS. 

Even  the  remotest  islands  are  seen  so  clearly  and  defi- 
nitely that  one  may  distinguish  almost  every  fissure  in 
the  rocks,  and  plants  covering  the  brinks  of  precipices. 
So  much  light  is  poured  down  to  the  earth  from  the 
heavens  here,  that  Italy  itself  can  give  no  idea  of  it. 
The  sea  and  the  sky  are  not  merely  blue,  they  are  lumi- 
nous. In  other  lands,  the  sun  seems  to  scorch  and 
to  shine ;  here,  it  penetrates  the  whole  landscape,  soaks  in, 
permeates,  coalesces  with  it,  excluding  absolutely  every 
shadow.  Therefore,  nothing  is  defined  here  so  sharply  as 
on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  for  example.  Every 
outline  on  which  the  eye  rests  is  immensely  expressive, 
and  still  mild,  for  it  is  embraced  by  a  single  tone  which 
is  very  clear  and  also  tender. 

The  Arch-sea  is  not  always  calm.  Those  same  whirl- 
winds which  bore  the  ship  of  Odysseus  to  the  Cyclops 
rush  on  at  times  among  the  islands  in  the  guise  of  wild 
horses ;  the  waves  thunder  and  hurl  snow-white  foam  to 
the  summits  of  cliffs  on  the  shore.  But  at  the  moment 
of  which  I  am  speaking,  the  blue  expanse  was  as  smooth 
as  a  mirror,  and  only  after  the  ship  came  a  broad  foam- 
ing pathway.  There  was  not  the  least  breeze  during 
daylight.  The  steamer  advanced  as  if  on  a  lake,  so  the 
deck  was  swarming  with  passengers.  There  was  no  lack 
even  of  elegant  toilets,  for  the  women  of  Athens  like,  more 
than  other  daughters  of  Eve,  to  wear  their  best  on  every 
occasion. 

That  assembly  on  deck  lasted  till  late  in  the  evening. 
The  Greeks  form  acquaintance  easily,  to  gratify  their  love 
of  talk,  perhaps.  Their  politeness  is  even  too  effusive  for 
sincerity.  In  general,  they  boast  immeasurably,  not  only 
of  their  ancient  but  their  present  civilization.  From 
moment  to  moment  they  enumerate  to  strangers  Greek 
celebrities  of  the  day,  scientific  and  artistic,  known  loudly 


A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS.  547 

as  it  were  in  all  Europe ;  and  they  are  astonished  if  any 
one  has  not  heard  of  them.  This  or  that  painter  with  his 
latest  picture  has  destroyed  Ge'rome  utterly  ;  this  or  that 
scientist  inoculated  for  hydrophobia  years  earlier  than 
Pasteur,  which,  speaking  in  parenthesis,  is  the  more  won- 
derful as  there  is  no  hydrophobia  in  southern  countries. 
One  might  think,  while  hearing  them,  that  as  God  once 
acted  solely  through  the  Franks,  so  now  He  makes  use  of 
the  Greeks  with  far  greater  effectiveness.  If  anything  of 
prime  importance  happens  in  the  world,  search  carefully, 
and  thou  wilt  find  a  Greek  there. 

Night  in  the  Archipelago  is  as  beautiful  as  the  day. 
Such  nights  Homer  called  >c  ambrosial."  The  bases  of 
the  islands  are  wrapped  in  mist  the  most  delicate ;  the 
moon  whitens  the  summits  of  the  mountains  ;  but  not 
the  least  cloud  is  visible  on  the  sky,  and  the  whole  sea  is 
covered  with  silvery  trails,  —  the  widest  made  by  the 
moon,  others  by  stars.  That  phenomenon  is  unknown  in 
the  North ;  but  more  than  once  in  Southern  seas  I  have 
seen  those  silver  trails,  or  rather  stripes,  playing  from  the 
stars  on  the  water. 

We  are  sailing  amid  such  silence  that  every  turn  of  the 
screw  is  heard.  On  the  horizon  we  see  a  number  of  ships, 
or  rather  their  lanterns,  which  seem  from  afar  like  many 
colored  swaying  points  suspended  in  the  atmosphere. 

These  ships  for  the  greater  part  are  making,  as  we  are, 
for  the  Piraeus,  where  they  will  be  at  daylight.  At  the 
first  dawn  in  fact  the  screw  ceases  to  roar  and  that  sudden 
silence  rouses  all  passengers.  We  dress  ;  we  hurry  to  the 
deck,  —  the  Piraeus,  Attica. 

I  suppose  that  the  most  callous  of  visitors  must  stand 
on  this  soil  with  a  certain  emotion,  face  to  face  with 
Athens.  Envoys  once  carried  to  the  Pope  the  great 
banner  of  all  Islam  taken  at  Vienna,  and  asked  relics  in 


548  A   JOURNEY   TO   ATHENS. 

return  for  it.  "  You  have  no  need  to  seek  relics,"  replied 
the  Pope  ;  "  take  a  handful  of  your  own  earth,  it  is  soaked 
in  the  blood  of  martyrs."  So  we  may  say  in  like  manner 
of  the  soil  of  Attica :  every  handful  of  it  is  penetrated 
with  Grecian  thought  and  Grecian  art.  You  will  recall, 
surely,  "  the  mothers  "  in  the  second  part  of  Faust,  those 
prototypes  and  first  patterns  of  everything  existing  beyond 
the  world  and  space,  so  majestic  in  their  indefinite  loneli- 
ness that  they  are  terrible.  Attica,  while  neither  in- 
definite nor  terrible,  is  the  intellectual  mother  of  all  who 
are  civilized.  Without  her,  it  is  unknown  where  we  might 
be  at  present,  or  what  we  might  have  become.  Attica  is 
the  sun  of  the  ancient  world ;  and  after  its  historical 
setting  there  remained  so  mighty  an  effulgence  behind, 
that  from  it  came  the  Eenaissance  or  rebirth  after  the 
darkness  of  the  Middle  Ages.  I  say,  Attica,  and  not 
Greece,  for  Attica  was  to  Hellas  what  Hellas  was  to  the 
world.  In  one  word,  when  we  enter  that  land  we  are  at 
the  source.  Other  civilizations  on  the  neighboring  shores 
of  Africa  and  Asia,  among  other  races  of  people,  were 
developed  into  monsters ;  Grecian  civilization  alone  re- 
mained human.  Others  were  lost  in  phantasms ;  it 
was  unique  in  this  that  it  took  the  existent  world  as 
the  basis  for  art  and  science,  and  was  able  from  ele- 
ments purely  actual  to  develop  the  loftiest  harmony ;  a 
harmony  truly  divine.  Greece  had  the  mind  to  be  god- 
like without  ceasing  to  be  human,  and  this  explains  her 
significance. 

At  the  moment  when  we  touched  Grecian  soil  "  rosy 
fingered  Aurora "  was  entering  the  sky.  From  the 
Piraeus  to  Athens  one  may  go  by  rail,  but  it  is  incom- 
parably better  to  take  a  carriage  and  see  accurately 
everything  which  may  be  seen  in  half  an  hour  on  the 
way.  The  road  from  the  Piraeus  is  occupied  on  both 


A   JOURNEY   TO   ATHENS.  549 

sides  by  sycamores;  it  passes  through  the  so-called  plain 
of  Attica,  which  the  Cephissus  waters,  or,  rather,  might 
water.  Every  name  here  rouses  an  echo  in  the  memory  and 
an  historical  reminiscence.  Were  it  not  for  this,  the  Cephis- 
sus would  rouse  no  very  great  regard ;  for  as  there  are 
bridges  in  Poland  which  do  not  exist,  so  the  Cephissus  is  a 
non-existent  river ;  this  means  that  in  the  parched  and 
burnt  bed  of  it  not  one  drop  of  water  is  flowing.  The  plain 
is  narrow.  On  the  left  hand,  in  the  direction  of  the  Bay  of 
Eleusis,  we  see  the  mountains  of  Daphne  and  the  Poikilon  ; 
on  the  right  is  honey-bearing  Hymettus,  and  Pentelicus, 
which  to-day,  as  in  old  times,  furnishes  Athenians  with 
marble.  The  country  seems  sun-parched,  empty,  sterile. 
The  fields,  mountains,  and  cliffs  have  an  ashen  hue,  im- 
measurably delicate,  with  a  tinge  somewhat  bluish.  This 
is  a  color  into  which  all  others  merge  in  Greece;  and  it 
predominates  everywhere,  on  the  islands  as  well  as  the 
mainland. 

Half-way  on  the  road,  the  olive  grove  also  seems  covered 
with  light  ashes.  Above  everything  is  a  cloudless,  azure 
sky,  not  so  deep  a  blue  as  in  Italy,  but,  as  I  have  stated, 
more  radiant  a  hundred  times.  The  earth  is  as  if  rent. 
The  rocks  crumble,  turn  to  dust,  and  are  scattered.  This 
gives  the  whole  region  an  aspect  of  ruin  and  desertion. 
But  this  aspect  becomes  it.  Silence,  decrepitude,  sleepy 
olive-trees,  and  barren  cliffs  befit  its  complexion. 

The  main  road  passes  the  railway  station  which  stands 
at  the  end  of  Hermes  Street ;  but  near  the  city  our 
carriage  turns  to  the  right,  and  we  enter  the  boulevard, 
which  is  lined  on  both  sides  with  pepper-trees.  Then  on 
a  steep  cliff  we  see  a  row  of  columns  of  pale-gold  color 
joined  by  battered  architraves.  All  this  is  ruddy  from 
the  morning  light,  and  is  outlined  against  the  sky  with 
indescribable  sweetness  and  purity,  not  too  large  in  its 


550  A   JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS. 

proportions,  great  beyond  every  estimate  in  its  repose,  in 
its  harmony,  simply  godlike. 

The  dragoman,  sitting  with  the  driver,  turns  and 
says,  — 

"  The  Acropolis." 

Nearer  the  cliff,  on  the  Ceramicus,  is  the  temple  of 
Theseus,  relatively  the  best  preserved  monument  of 
antiquity.  Afterward,  at  every  step,  there  are  fragments : 
Pelasgic  walls,  the  rock  of  the  Pnyx,  the  prison  of 
Socrates,  and  other  grottos,  looking  out  from  amid  their 
rocks  through  dark  openings  into  daylight.  At  the  foot 
of  the  cliff  itself,  the  edge  of  the  precipice  hides  the  lines 
of  the  Parthenon ;  but  one  sees  the  whole  disorder  of  the 
ruins  of  the  Odeon  of  Herod,  and  the  theatre  of  Bacchus. 
The  eye  runs  from  one  fragment  to  another ;  the  imagina- 
tion labors,  striving  to  reconstruct  vanished  life ;  the 
mind  cannot  embrace  everything,  and  a  man  limits  him- 
self involuntarily  to  the  simple  acceptance  of  impressions. 
But  you  feel  that  it  was  worth  while  to  come  here,  that  this 
is  not  a  hurried  look  at  ruins,  "  Baedecker  "  in  hand,  and 
the  desire  in  your  soul  of  getting  back  to  the  hotel  at 
the  earliest.  But  the  carriage  passes  those  half  divine 
rocks  too  quickly,  and  soon  we  are  in  the  new  city, 
modern  Athens. 

Let  us  speak  of  it  before  we  go  back  to  the  Acropolis. 

I  had  come  prepared  for  Eastern  filth,  —  the  filth  of 
Stambul,  which  conquers  the  nerves  of  an  average  person. 
I  was  most  agreeably  disappointed.  First,  it  is  not  true 
that  in  Athens  one  sees  only  as  much  green  as  there  is 
salad  served  at  dinner.  It  may  be  that  just  because 
there  is  little  of  it  in  the  country,  the  city  has  made 
an  effort  to  shade  streets  and  squares  with  trees.  I 
entered  the  city  near  the  Acropolis  and  the  temple  of 
Olympian  Zeus,  by  the  Panhellenic  Boulevard,  which  is 


A  JOURNEY  TO   ATHENS.  551 

one  strip  of  verdure.  The  pepper-trees,  with  bright-green, 
delicate  leaves,  call  to  mind  weeping  willows,  and  give  this 
street  the  look  of  spring-time,  of  May.  Everywhere  one 
sees  pleasure-grounds,  in  them  palm-trees,  black  oaks, 
cactuses,  and  aloes.  It  is  true  that  all  these  are  covered 
with  a  gray  dust  coming  from  rocks  and  ruins,  as  if  those 
dead  remnants  wished  to  say  to  every  living  being :  "  Dust 
thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou  shalt  return  ;"  but,  at  present, 
shade  and  coolness  may  be  found  everywhere  in  Athens. 
The  chief  streets  of  the  city  are  broad ;  the  houses  are 
large,  of  dazzling  whiteness,  the  richer  ones  faced  with 
marble  obtained  from  the  naked  flanks  of  Pentelicus. 
Those  buildings  are  not  devoid  of  charm  and  elegance. 
The  king's  palace  forms  the  exception.  Its  walls  are  of 
Pentelicus  marble  also,  but  the  style  heavy,  like  that  of 
barracks,  renders  this  residence  not  only  no  ornament  to 
the  grand  square  of  the  Constitution,  but  a  deformity. 
As  a  recompense,  behind  the  palace,  and  at  one  side  of  it, 
are  the  really  splendid  gardens  of  the  king ;  but  in  front 
of  the  palace  lies  a  genuine,  gray,  burning  desert  which 
extends  to  the  chief  public  gardens  of  the  city.  So  that 
nothing  might  spoil  the  impression  of  a  desert,  there  are 
a  few  large  palms  in  it,  lofty,  and  delineated  firmly  in  the 
middle  of  the  barrenness.  Add  an  Arab  with  a  camel,  and 
you  might  think  yourself  in  Egypt.  For  the  rest,  the  city 
is  bright,  clean,  out  and  out  European,  but  built  (this 
we  can  understand  easily)  under  the  influence  and  on  the 
model  of  the  ancient  architecture  of  Greece,  which  gives 
it  a  splendid  aspect.  Everywhere  one  sees  Doric,  Ionic, 
and  Corinthian  columns,  friezes  which  man  began  to 
carve  and  which  the  sun  has  finished.  The  University, 
and  especially  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  has  the  splendid 
and  harmonious  forms  of  a  Greek  temple. 

At  the  side  of  the  portico  stand  two  mighty  columns 


552  A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS. 

of  the  marble  of  Pentelicus  with  gilded  abaci.  On  one  of 
them  stands  the  gigantic  Pallas  Athene,  with  a  helmet  on 
her  head  and  a  spear  in  her  hand ;  on  the  other,  an 
immense  Apollo  with  a  phurminx.  In  the  night,  by 
moonlight,  these  marbles  seem  bright  green,  and  so  charm- 
ingly light  that  they  appear  not  to  weigh  on  the  earth. 
Perhaps  a  specialist  in  architecture  might  object  this  and 
that  to  those  buildings ;  but  in  every  case,  they  are  a 
decoration  to  the  city,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
which  it  has  happened  me  to  see. 

The  richest  part  of  Athens  is  nearest  the  square  of  the 
Constitution  and  the  palace  of  the  king,  then  the  Pan- 
hellenic  Boulevard,  the  University  Boulevard,  Stadin 
Street,  and  many  others  adjoining,  up  to  the  Square  of 
Concord.  These  streets  were  laid  out  by  rich  Greeks, 
living  some  in  the  Phanar  of  Stambul,  some  in  Odessa, 
Marseilles,  and  other  seaport  cities. 

These  people,  with  the  inborn  Greek  genius  for  traffic, 
accumulated  millions ;  but,  we  should  do  them  justice  in 
this,  they  have  not  bartered  away  the  Greek  spirit.  A 
money-changer  of  Marseilles  or  Odessa  who  might  claim 
descent  from  Miltiades,  appeal  to  Marathon,  Leonidas, 
Thermopylae,  Themistocles,  Salamis,  Phidias,  or  Apelles, 
and  turn  to  the  ruins  of  the  Acropolis,  had  that  which 
no  money  in  the  world  could  purchase.  And  be- 
cause of  that  claim,  because  of  the  glorious  past,  millions 
from  all  lands  flowed  into  Attica ;  amid  its  wild  defiles 
appeared  macadamized  roads  and  railways ;  in  cities 
inhabited  by  half-savage  palicars,  schools  were  founded ; 
and  on  the  ruins  of  ancient  Athens  rose  the  Athens  of 
our  day. 

Merchants  and  traders  at  present  are  established  mainly 
on  Hermes  Street.  Hermes,  as  we  know,  was  the  patron 
of  merchants  when  Zeus  was  in  power.  In  general,  the 


A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS.  553 

whole  lower  part  of  the  city,  toward  Gara  and  the  Cera- 
micus,  was  under  his  patronage.  Here  is  situated  the 
bazaar,  which  calls  to  mind  other  Eastern  bazaars ;  here  a 
vivacious  population  swarm  in  great  numbers,  gesticulat- 
ing and  talking  as  loudly  as  if  they  intended  to  stun 
passers-by.  Life  and  trade  are  on  the  street  here,  as 
everywhere  in  Southern  cities ;  in  the  evening,  when  the 
heat  of  the  day  has  passed,  movement  is  greatest.  The 
shops  are  open  till  late.  Flaming  jets  of  gas  illuminate 
exhibitions  of  goods,  splendid  fruits,  and  flowers. 

From  four  in  the  afternoon,  not  only  Hermes  Street 
and  the  business  part  of  the  city  is  swarming  with  people, 
but  they  fill  also  the  wealthy  divisions.  Stadin  Street,  on 
which  I  lodged,  is  a  fashionable  promenade,  in  the  fore- 
noon it  was  difficult  to  pass  on  the  sidewalks,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  carriages  followed  each  other  closely. 
There  were  fewer  women  present  than  men,  especially 
among  pedestrians.  Perhaps  this  is  a  remnant  of  Oriental 
influence,  or  perhaps  the  custom  of  hiding  women  at 
home  began  and  was  fixed  during  Turkish  rule,  since  it 
was  not  over  safe  for  young  women  to  show  themselves 
before  beys  and  bimbashis.  There  are  few  beautiful  faces 
among  the  women.  The  type  is  less  Greek  than  Arme- 
nian. The  days  of  Phryne  and  Lais  are  far  distant,  and 
no  Areopagus  now  would  declare  a  Greek  woman  inno- 
cent because  of  her  beauty.  I  have  read  that  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Megara  and  ancient  Laconia,  as  well  as  some  of 
the  islands,  have  preserved  the  ancient  type  still ;  but  in 
Megara  I  have  not  found  it,  and  I  have  not  been  on  the 
banks  of  the  Eurotas,  or  on  the  islands. 

Among  men  there  are  many  at  once  beautiful  and  wild 
looking.  It  is  certain  that  the  bright-haired  Achilles 
must  have  looked  otherwise ;  but  Canaris  might  have 
resembled  these.  Many,  too,  wear  yet  the  Albanian  cos- 


554  A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS. 

tume,  composed  of  pustanelli,  that  is,  a  white  skirt  reach- 
ing almost  to  the  knees,  a  fez,  and  a  jacket  embroi- 
dered with  silk  or  gold.  The  loins  are  encircled  by  a  belt, 
behind  which  was  thrust  formerly  a  whole  arsenal  of 
pistols  and  daggers,  where  to-day  they  carry  handker- 
chiefs. In  spite  of  the  handkerchief,  which,  in  com- 
parison with  past  times,  is  undeniably  a  progress,  they 
are  inveterate  conservatives  and  hostile  to  "Western 
influence. 

But  one  meets  men  in  ancient  costume,  mainly  among 
the  aged.  Still,  whole  divisions  of  the  army  are  uni- 
formed after  the  fashion  of  the  palicars,  and  this  gives 
Athens  an  appearance  different  from  other  cities. 

Eural  Greeks,  despite  robber  instincts,  which,  as  it 
seems,  have  not  died  out  yet  in  all  places,  are  perhaps 
honest,  industrious,  and  faithful  to  their  duties ;  yet  city 
dwellers  have  the  world  over  a  fixed  reputation  which  is 
far  from  favorable.  As  I  passed  not  quite  a  month  in 
the  midst  of  them,  I  cannot  judge  from  my  own  observa- 
tion. But  even  in  that  brief  stay  one  might  observe  that 
in  no  other  city  do  merchants,  hotel-keepers,  guides,  livery- 
men, and  money-changers  speak  so  much  of  their  own 
honesty  as  in  Athens.  This  seems  a  trifle  suspicious. 

More  recent  travellers,  who  have  either  spent  a  longer 
time  in  Greece,  or  who  after  a  short  stay  have  had  the 
boldness  to  give  a  decisive  opinion,  make  unfavorable 
mention  of  Greeks  in  general. 

Edmond  About,  who  died  recently,  wrote  a  book 
which  is  shallow,  but  curious,  and  full  of  witty  remarks 
touching  Greece.  But  the  malicious  "grandson  of  Vol- 
taire," as  he  has  been  nicknamed,  despite  this,  that  he 
strives  to  be  impartial,  judges  the  descendants  of  the 
ancient  Demos  of  Athens  too  sneeringly.  According  to 
him,  the  Greeks  of  to-day,  in  capacity  for  lying,  might  put 


A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS.  555 

their  ancestor  Ulysses  to  shame,  as  well  as  Pallas  Athene, 
his  patroness,  and  also  the  ancient  Cretans,  who,  accord- 
ing to  Epimenides,  surpassed  all  men  in  this  art.  Besides, 
they  are  greedy  beyond  every  expression ;  people  of  other 
nationalities  they  endure  in  so  far  as  they  can  plunder 
them.  As  to  bravery,  Canaris,  according  to  About,  was 
exceptional,  hence  they  made  such  an  outcry  concerning 
him ;  but  the  Greeks  if  considered  in  general  are  cowardly. 
About  goes  so  far  even  as  to  state  that  they  have  been 
so  at  all  times,  even  during  the  siege  of  Troy ;  that  they 
lack  knightly  feeling,  the  appreciation  of  a  good  cause,  and 
of  justice;  that  they  show  a  blind  respect  for  power  of  all 
kinds,  and  a  corresponding  contempt  for  weakness,  mis- 
fortune, and  poverty. 

Among  thousands  of  anecdotes  About  cites  one  which 
I  may  be  permitted  to  repeat,  as  it  concerns  us  Poles 
more  nearly. 

After  the  storms  in  1848,  which  shook  the  dynasty  of  the 
Hapsburgs,  a  handful  of  Poles  settled  in  Athens.  Some 
died  of  hunger  and  fever,  for  the  climate  of  Athens,  if 
they  stay  in  it  long,  is  injurious  to  foreigners.  But  even 
the  slight  means  afforded  the  Poles  was  as  salt  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Greeks.  At  every  step  they  insulted  those 
refugees.  They  challenged  them  to  duels ;  but  the  Poles 
acted  prudently,  and  did  not  accept.  Once  a  fire  broke 
out  in  Athens,  and  threatened  the  whole  city.  The 
Greeks  hurried  together  from  all  sides  to  look  at  the 
burning,  gesticulate,  and  shout.  The  Poles  (I  beg  to 
remember  that  I  am  quoting  About)  rushed  into  the 
flames  and  extinguished  them  with  great  peril  to  them- 
selves. And  now  let  any  one  guess  what  reward  they 
received. 

Well,  command  was  given  them  to  leave  Greece  ! 

The   Greeks   acted   thus   because  after  this  deed  the 


556  A   JOURNEY   TO   ATHENS. 

Poles  were  celebrated  at  the  expense  of  the  Greeks,  and 
because  news  of  their  exploit,  hence  of  their  presence  in 
Athens,  passed  around  Europe,  and  might  attract  later 
attention,  and  perhaps,  too,  a  diplomatic  note  from  the 
government  of  Austria,  at  that  time  exceedingly  unfavor- 
able to  the  refugees. 

And  that  reason  sufficed. 

If  About's  account  be  a  true  one,  and  he  was  not  our 
friend  to  such  a  degree  as  to  invent  tales  to  glorify  us, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  the  descendants  of  the  father 
of  logic  have  not  ceased,  it  is  true,  to  be  as  logical  as  the 
Stagirite  himself;  but  the  traditions  of  Aristides  have 
perished  forever  among  them. 

Still  in  that  which  is  stated  by  the  above-mentioned 
author,  and  by  others  more  recent,  concerning  the  Greeks, 
there  must  be  undoubtedly  many  exaggerations,  and  per- 
haps misunderstandings  in  still  greater  number.  Above 
all,  such  travellers  bring  with  them  a  ready-made  ethical 
standard  which  is  very  broad,  being  the  result  of  West- 
ern civilization  and  its  elaborate  moral  culture.  With 
this  scale,  they  measure  a  society  which  only  in  recent 
times  freed  itself  from  a  bondage  which  was  really  debas- 
ing and  shameful,  and  witli  a  standard  the  more  absolute 
because  it  is  applied  to  foreigners,  not  to  themselves. 
These  men  forget  also  this,  that  as,  for  instance,  the 
conception  of  honor  and  knightliness  was  foreign  to 
Antiquity,  a  whole  sphere  of  moral  conceptions  may 
exist  which  is  foreign  to  Orientals ;  those  people,  espe- 
cially conquered  ones,  as  were  the  Greeks,  had,  to  speak 
strictly,  no  conception  for  a  long  time,  and  had  to  govern 
themselves  solely  by  the  animal  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion. That  instinct  was  for  them  tone-giving,  and  de- 
cided equally  questions  of  ethics  and  logic. 

Savage  people  are  the  same  everywhere.     Once  when 


A  JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS.  557 

a  missionary  asked  a  negro  converted  by  him  to  give  a 
case  of  what  to  his  thinking  evil  was,  the  savage  medi- 
tated a  while,  and  answered,  — 

"  Evil  is  if  some  one  steals  my  wife." 

"  Exactly  !  "  said  the  delighted  missionary.  "  And  now 
give  me  a  case  of  good." 

The  savage  did  not  hesitate  a  moment,  — 

"  Good  is  if  I  steal  somebody  else's  wife." 

Here  is  the  logic  of  people  who  are  savage,  who  have 
fallen  into  savagery,  or  who  are  becoming  savage.  It  is 
also  universal  enough  in  the  Orient. 

But  let  us  give  peace  to  the  Greeks.  I  have  quoted 
Peschl's  old  anecdote  because  there  is  a  logic  contained 
in  it,  which  we  hear  more  and  more,  both  in  private  and 
public.  It  thunders  increasingly  everywhere  ;  it  appears 
in  the  columns  of  daily  papers ;  it  swells  like  a  wave ; 
it  drowns  every  day  the  difference  between  good  and  evil, 
between  justice  and  injustice ;  it  paralyses  the  capacity 
of  taking  moral  bearings  in  the  mazes  of  public  life, 
it  destroys  and  brings  to  utter  ruin  the  moral  sense  of 
public  opinion,  which  at  last  knows  not,  and  cares  not  to 
know,  whom  it  should  favor  and  whom  it  should  exe- 
crate. The  present  world  is  not  savage,  but  perhaps  in 
a  sense  it  is  growing  so. 

About  wrote  his  book  thirty  years  ago.  Greeks  of  the 
present  generation  would  not  act  as  did  his  contempora- 
ries. They  would  not,  because  they  are  growing  civilized 
in  a  good  sense,  for  they  are  regenerated ;  youthful, 
enthusiastic,  they  work,  they  develop  and  perfect  grad- 
ually all  their  spiritual  capacities,  hence  among  others 
the  moral  sense.  Equilibrium  among  them  is  not  de- 
stroyed yet.  To  be  precise,  they  are  ceasing  to  be  savage, 
instead  of  becoming  so ;  hence,  they  have  shame  in  their 
eyes. 


558  A   JOURNEY   TO   ATHENS. 

Besides  they  have  patriotism,  one  great  quality  which 
none  will  deny  them. 

This  patriotism  rests  on  love  for  ancient  Hellas,  as  well 
as  for  Hellas  of  our  day. 

Though  the  thread  of  tradition  was  woven  somewhat 
artificially ;  though  scholars  declare  that  the  Greeks  of 
to-day  have  in  their  veins  hardly  a  small  drop  of  the 
blood  of  the  ancient  Hellenes,  and  are  pre-eminently  a 
mixture  of  former  slaves  of  various  origins,  Albanians 
and  Slavs,  —  they,  as  heirs  of  the  land,  wish  to  be,  and 
are,  inheritors  also  of  its  traditions.  For  this  reason, 
their  patriotism  is  not  like  a  plant  which  grasps  only 
the  surface,  and  which  the  first  wind  may  tear  out; 
but  it  has  grown  into  the  earth,  and  possesses  im- 
movable power.  It  possesses  that  power  for  this  spe- 
cial cause,  that  it  is  historical,  and  wishes  to  go  into  the 
future  with  progress,  but  it  knows  that  the  ever-pulsating 
source  and  the  reason  of  its  existence  is  on  the  Acropo- 
lis. So  we,  too,  will  go  to  the  Acropolis,  for  the  source 
there  is  of  this  sort,  that  each  of  us  can  draw  artistic 
impressions  at  least  from  it. 

The  whole  plain  of  Attica  is  so  small,  and  all  things 
are  so  near  one  another,  that  travellers  on  steamers  which 
stop  at  the  Piraeus  only  six  hours  have  time  to  visit 
Athens,  examine  the  sacred  cliff,  the  Olympian,  the 
temple  of  Theseus,  the  ruins  surrounded  by  the  new  city, 
the  ancient  cemetery  of  the  Hagia  Trias,  the  museum, 
and  return  in  time  for  sailing.  All  the  more  had  I  time 
therefore  and  opportunity  not  for  scientific  research,  but 
for  a  minute  examination,  since  I  stayed  about  three  weeks 
in  Athens  itself.  But  certainly  it  is  easier  to  go  from  the 
square  of  the  Constitution  to  the  Acropolis,  than  to  de- 
scribe the  Acropolis.  Besides  my  labor  moves  by  another 
road ;  I  am  not  a  Hellenist,  so  I  prefer  to  give  merely  an 


A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS.  559 

account  of  impressions,  and  not  describe  minutely  remains 
concerning  which  whole  volumes  have  been  written, — 
the  fruit  of  difficult  labor  continued  through  long  years. 

We  go  up  by  a  serpentine  path  overgrown  by  agaves 
and  cactuses.  Before  and  above  us,  we  see  merely  a 
gigantic,  gray,  crumbling  wall,  which  is  only  in  part  an 
Hellenic  inheritance,  some  of  it  was  reared  by  the  Latins, 
and  some  by  the  Turks  even.  From  behind  this  wall 
looks  forth  the  three-cornered  summits  and  the  out-jut- 
ting architraves  of  the  temples.  It  is  empty  when  I  go 
in,  not  a  living  soul  present,  for  it  is  an  afternoon  hour, 
and  the  air  burning,  though  in  the  first  days  of  November. 
At  a  side  gate  an  old  veteran  is  slumbering ;  we  pass  him, 
go  by  a  house  where  piles  of  marble  fragments  are  heaped 
up.  The  road  winds  once  more ;  we  enter  by  steps 
ascending  the  hill,  and  are  in  the  Propylsea,  through 
which  we  embrace  with  the  eye  all  the  platform  on  the 
summit.  The  first  impression  is  ruin !  ruin !  silence, 
death  !  Some  external  Doric  and  internal  Ionic  columns 
of  the  Propylsea  are  pushed  apart,  and  are  held  in  place 
only  by  the  weight  of  rocks ;  the  walls  are  split,  dented, 
show  the  light  through  them,  are  broken  round  about ; 
nowhere  behind  that  glorious  gate  is  there  an  ell  of  un- 
occupied earth.  Scattered  over  the  whole  space  on  the 
flat  summit,  and  piled  on  it,  are  the  bases  of  columns,  the 
remnants  of  architraves  and  friezes,  the  fragments  of 
metopes,  capitals,  and  facing  stones.  All  this,  except  a 
few  temples,  thrown  one  on  the  other,  hanging,  bent, 
falling,  piled  up,  lying  in  a  wild  disorder  of  which  even 
the  Koman  Forum  can  give  no  idea.  It  occurs  to  the 
traveller  that  here  must  have  happened  some  terrible 
battle  of  giants,  or  gigantic  powers,  from  which  the  moun- 
tain split,  the  walls  burst,  and  finally  every  tiling  fell,  and 
there  remained  only  destruction. 


560  A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS. 

So  the  first  impression  that  we  obtain  on  passing  the 
Propylsea  is  the  impression  of  a  catastrophe. 

The  advance  is  silent ;  for  everything  around  us  is  so 
perfectly  dead  that  our  own  animation,  our  own  move- 
ment, seems  to  us  strange  and  inappropriate  in  those 
places. 

Were  we  to  meet  an  acquaintance,  we  should  prefer 
not  to  speak  to  him,  but  merely  to  look  him  in  the  eyes 
inquiringly,  pass  on,  sit  down  in  the  shade  somewhere, 
and  see  how  the  sun  bathes  the  ruins  in  light. 

For,  as  I  have  said,  light  in  this  country  does  not  fall,  but 
at  this  hour,  especially,  it  pours  in  a  torrent.  And  it  might 
seem  that  these  burning,  living  springs  of  light  weaken  the 
impression  of  ruin,  of  destruction  and  deathly  silence.  But 
no  !  Hum  and  destruction  find  only  greater  expression  by 
means  of  them,  —  expression  almost  absolute. 

So  we  sit  and  look  at  that  stone  mountain,  on  the 
bright  marbles  of  the  Parthenon  and  the  Erechtheum, 
bathed  in  sunlight,  until  finally  something  rises  out  of 
the  ruins  and  enters  us.  We  begin  to  be  in  harmony 
with  that  world,  and  later  to  fraternize  with  it.  Then  we 
feel  well ;  for  an  immense  repose  enters  us,  a  repose  great 
as  stones  and  ruins  can  possibly  have. 

This  repose  and  the  repose  of  the  traveller  become,  one. 
I  suppose  that  the  more  pained  a  man's  soul  is,  the  better 
he  feels  in  those  ruins.  He  would  like  to  rest  his  head 
against  the  pilaster  of  a  column,  close  and  open  his  eyes 
in  succession,  and  nestle  there.  One  feels  more  and  more 
at  home ;  the  wanderer  looks  with  more  and  more  friendli- 
ness on  those  extended  lines  of  the  Parthenon,  on  the  white 
Erechtheum,  and  on  the  Propyhea  lying  lower.  But  one 
must  see  them  to  understand  how  those  buildings,  pale 
golden  in  color  from  age,  are  outlined  in  the  sun  and 
the  blue ;  one  must  see  them  to  understand  the  repose  of 


A  JOURNEY  TO   ATHENS.  561 

those  architraves,  of  those  rows  of  columns  and  facades ! 
Simplicity,  repose,  dignity,  and  true  divine  order,  —  there 
they  are.  It  is  difficult  to  see  this  immediately ;  the 
charm  acts  by  degrees ;  but  all  the  more  mightily  does  it 
penetrate,  and  at  last  it  intoxicates.  And  thou,  0  wan- 
derer, wilt  recognize  that  these  masterpieces  have  given 
thee  not  only  repose,  but  they  have  ravished  thee  with 
their  beauty,  and  with  that  which  goes  with  it,  their 
sweetness. 

These  are  the  successive  impressions  through  which  a 
man  passes  on  the  Acropolis.  When  one  is  on  the  spot, 
these  impressions  are  so  powerful  that  it  would  come  to 
no  man's  head  to  open  a  printed  guide  and  look  in  it  for 
details.  Once  at  home,  you  will  read  that  the  temple  Nike* 
Apteros  (Wingless  Victory)  was  not  long  since  raised  up 
from  its  own  ruins ;  that  Lord  Elgin  took  to  the  British 
Museum  one  of  the  marvellous  caryatids  supporting  the 
right  portico  of  the  Erechtheum  ;  and  that  thither  also 
wandered  the  metopes  of  the  Parthenon ;  that  an  explo- 
sion of  Turkish  powder  caused  the  ruin  of  all  the  central 
part  of  that  temple ;  that  copies  of  the  metopes  may  be 
seen  in  the  museum  on  this  cliff;  and  that  pashas  had 
their  harems  in  the  Erechtheum. 

At  the  first  moment  it  is  all  one  to  you  that  the  Par- 
thenon is  built  in  a  style  purely  Doric ;  that  the  Erech- 
theum and  Niks'  Apteros  are  Ionic ;  and  that  in  the  Propy- 
l?ea  are  columns  of  both  styles.  You  knew  that  before 
you  came  to  Athens.  Here  the  universal  spirit,  or  rather 
the  genius  of  ancient  Hellas,  breathes  on  you  first  of  all, 
and  that  breath  you  have  no  wish  to  ward  off  or  analyze. 

And  soon  the  imagination  begins  to  work,  then  it  rep- 
resents to  itself  that  Acropolis  in  the  days  of  Pericles, 
when  everything  stood  in  its  own  place,  when  there 
were  temples  of  which  there  are  no  traces  at  present,  and 


562  A   JOURNEY   TO   ATHENS. 

when  among  them  there  was  a  forest  of  statues ;  when 
the  Parthenon  was  not  stripped  of  its  ornaments  ;  when 
from  below  it  was  possible  to  see  on  its  front  the  birth  of 
Athene,  and  on  the  other  facade  her  dispute  with  Posei- 
don, and  the  spear  of  Athene  Promachos  was  visible 
from  the  sea.  Let  us  imagine  to  ourselves  especially  a 
Panathenic  procession,  —  priests,  archons,  warriors,  musi- 
cians, people,  bulls  with  gilded  horns  led  to  the  altars  of 
the  opisthodomos,  garlands  of  flowers,  and  that  classical 
drapery  with  statuesque  folds.  But  I  almost  prefer  to 
represent  to  myself  in  thought  the  night  of  that  time,  and 
the  pale  greenish  light  of  the  moon  on  the  marbles,  till 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  a  people  could  create  such  a 
mountain  of  masterpieces ;  and  still  we  may  explain  it. 
Grecian  mythology  was  a  worship  of  the  powers  of  nature, 
or  elemental  Pantheism.  But  in  the  soul  of  the  Greek, 
the  artist  preponderated  always  above  the  philosopher ;  so 
poets  first  of  all  arrayed  phenomena  in  human  bodies  and 
feelings,  later  came  plastic  art,  and  thus  rose  those  mar- 
vellous stone  fables. 

Athene  knew  how  to  choose  a  place  for  her  capital; 
what  a  background  was  that  for  those  temples  and 
statues  !  On  one  side  the  sea,  which  in  that  transparent 
atmosphere  seemed  right  before  you ;  on  the  other,  all 
Attica,  like  something  on  the  palm  of  the  hand,  the  hill 
of  Hymettus,  farther  the  Pentelicus  ;  on  the  north,  Parnas- 
sus ;  and  southward,  toward  the  straits  of  Salamis,  Daphne. 
Overhead  a  sky  ever  serene,  and  eagles  whose  calls  break 
to  this  day  the  silence  on  the  Acropolis. 

Our  impressions  at  sight  of  other  ruins  are  merely  a 
fainter  reflex  of  thoughts  and  feelings  born  in  the  soul  at 
sight  of  those  remnants  on  the  Acropolis.  The  works  of 
Mnesicles,  Ictinus  and  Callicrates  were  not  equalled  by 
any  one  either  before  Pericles  or  after  him.  They  created 


A  JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS.  563 

not  only  the  Parthenon,  the  Erechtheum,  and  the  Propy- 
laea,  but  they  established  the  architectural  dogma  which 
thenceforth  was  to  be  accepted  by  all  architects  of  antiq- 
uity. The  Eomans  will  permit  themselves  to  add  their 
own  arch  ;  they  will  rear  Colosseums,  Baths,  Circuses, 
and  circular  temples  like  the  Pantheon  of  Agrippa,  but 
that  is  all.  In  other  respects  they  will  follow  in  the 
footsteps  of  those  immortal  predecessors  and  not  fall 
away  from  the  dogma.  They  can  only  exaggerate  the 
masterpieces  of  the  Acropolis  through  size,  and  they  do 
that  even  in  Athens  itself. 

Below  the  Acropolis,  east  of  the  cliff,  the  Eomans 
erected  near  the  river  Ilissus  a  temple  to  Olympian  Zeus, 
completed  only  during  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Hadrian. 
To-day,  of  the  hundred  and  twenty  columns  which  com- 
posed it,  there  remain  only  sixteen,  thirteen  at  one  end, 
and  three  at  the  other.  These  columns,  purely  Corin- 
thian, are  six  feet  in  diameter  and  sixty  feet  high.  That 
was  the  largest  temple  on  the  plain  watered  by  the 
Cephissus  and  the  Ilissus.  Titus  Livius,  mentioning  it, 
declares  that  in  dimensions  it  was  the  only  temple  worthy 
of  the  majesty  of  the  god  to  whom  it  was  dedicated  : 
Unum  in  terris  inchoatum  pro  magnitudine  dei.  And 
perhaps  Zeus,  as  the  father  of  Athene  and  the  mightiest 
of  the  gods,  deserved  the  largest  temple ;  but  Athene,  the 
patroness  of  Athens,  was  also  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  so 
Zeus  could  only  have,  in  gigantic  form,  the  reflection  from 
prototypes  and  originals  born  directly  of  thoughts  inspired 
by  the  "  owl-eyed  "  divinity. 

It  does  not  follow  in  the  least  from  this  that  I  consider 
the  creators  of  the  temples  of  the  Acropolis  as  the  in- 
ventors of  the  Grecian  orders  of  architecture.  I  say  only, 
that  they  settled  the  rules  ;  for  they  knew  how  to  give  its 
final  and  loftiest  expression  to  Grecian  architecture,  as 


564  A  JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS. 

Phidias  ill  his  time  gave  the  highest  expression  to  its 
sculpture.  But  the  temple  of  Theseus,  resembling  the 
Parthenon  on  a  smaller  scale,  was  built  before  the 
Parthenon,  as  were  surely  many  others  of  which  only 
single  columns  remain  here  and  there  to  us.  That  temple 
of  Theseus  is  the  best  preserved  remnant  of  the  past. 
There  was  a  fortress  on  the  Acropolis,  so  the  edifices 
which  stood  there  were  exposed  to  every  blow  of  war, 
and  in  modern  times  to  bombardment.  The  temple  of 
Theseus  was  in  the  middle  of  the  city.  It  was  exposed 
mainly  to  internal  changes,  for  from  being  a  pagan  temple . 
it  was  modified  into  a  Christian  church.  The  internal 
columns  of  the  pronaos  were  thrown  down,  and  in  place 
of  them  was  erected  a  half-circular  niche,  in  which  an 
altar  was  placed  ;  a  large  gate  was  opened  in  the  wall, 
separating  the  cella  from  the  opisthodomos,  and  evi- 
dently all  the  statues  were  thrown  out  of  the  interior  of 
the  temple,  where  to-day  are  seen  only  four  naked  walls. 
Light  reaches  with  difficulty  the  interior,  which  is  turned 
into  a  kind  of  museum  ;  for  there  are  set  up  in  it  either 
plaster  of  Paris  copies  or  fragments  of  sculpture  which 
adorned  the  temple  in  old  times.  As  I  have  said,  it 
recalls  the  Parthenon,  but  since  it  stands  on  level  ground 
it  does  not  produce  that  imposing  impression,  especially 
since  its  dimensions  are  much  smaller.  The  Parthenon 
had  seventeen  columns  at  its  sides ;  the  temple  of  Theseus 
only  thirteen,  and  they  were  much  smaller.  The  Par- 
thenon had  eight  columns  at  its  ends ;  the  temple  of 
Theseus  six.  Finally,  it  was  much  less  ornamented ;  for 
Phidias  filled  both  facades  of  the  temple  on  the  Acropolis 
with  statues,  and  all  the  metopes  with  sculptures  in 
relief.  The  temple  of  Theseus  had  only  frieze  on  the 
external  wall  of  the  cella,  and  metopes  only  on  the 
eastern  facade,  covered  with  sculpture  in  relief,  represent- 


A   JOURNEY   TO  ATHENS.  565 

ing  the  exploits  of  Theseus  accomplished  through  the  aid 
of  Heracles.  The  eastern  facade  had  also  sculpture,  of 
which  nothing  is  left. 

But  these  are  details  which  would  have  value  only  if 
I  were  to  add  to  them  at  least  drawings  of  these  edifices. 
The  temple  of  Theseus  is  interesting  for  this,  that  it  is 
well  preserved  and  gives  us  the  most  accurate  idea  of 
Doric  architecture,  which  is  at  once  so  dignified  and  so 
full  of  repose.  It  stands  on  a  broad  square  on  which 
there  is  neither  a  tree  nor  a  grass-blade ;  hence  its 
columns,  pale  gold  color  from  age,  stand  with  a  certain 
melancholy  charm  on  that  gray  background. 

From  this  square  the  rocks  of  the  Pnyx  are  visible. 
The  Pnyx  was  a  meeting  place  once  for  multitudes. 
Stone  steps  hewn  out  in  the  rocks  indicate  the  way 
where  men  passed  to  the  upper  terrace,  from  which 
Athens  was  seen  below  the  spectator's  feet.  On  the 
right  hand  was  the  Museum,  directly  in  front  the 
Acropolis.  There  are  no  buildings  whatever  at  the 
Pnyx  now,  there  are  only  traces  of  a  gigantic  tribune, 
called  in  antiquity  the  Bema,  where  people  sat  during 
deliberations.  The  rocks  are  stripped  entirely  of  vegeta- 
tion ;  they  stand  there  eternally  naked ;  I  met  no  living 
soul  on  them.  The  noise  of  the  city  does  not  reach 
that  far ;  the  scream  of  eagles  alone  breaks  the  silence.  A 
verse  of  Slovatski  now  occurred  to  me. 

"  Here  on  the  stones  the  breeze  struggles 
With  the  work  of  Arachne  and  rends  her  web. 
Here  is  the  odor  of  sad  slopes,  of  parched  mountains. 
Here  the  wind,  when  it  has  run  around  the  gray  pile  of  ruins, 
Blows  over  it  the  down  of  flowers, 
That  down,  advancing,  flies  among  the  tombs  like  spirits." 

Not  so  silent,  but  equally  desolate,  is  the  Areopagus, 
situated  near  the  cliff  of  the  Acropolis.  Besides  the 


566  A  JOURNEY  TO  ATHENS. 

locality  which  tradition  makes  sacred,  and  the  deep 
fissures  in  the  rocks  which  are  filled  with  refuse,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  seen  there. 

In  the  city  itself,  and  in  its  environs,  are  some  remains 
which  deserve  attention,  such  as  the  Stoa  of  Hadrian,  the 
Stoa  of  Attains,  the  Tower  of  Winds,  the  little  chapel  of 
Lysicrates,  the  arch  of  Hadrian,  and  the  monument  of 
Philopappos ;  finally,  the  cemetery  of  the  Hagia  Trias, 
opened  not  long  since,  in  which  may  be  seen  a  number  of 
beautiful,  even  very  beautiful,  monuments.  But  I  shall 
not  try  to  describe  ruins.  I  have  given  an  account  merely 
of  impressions  which  I  received  mainly  on  the  Acropolis, 
which  appeals  most  forcibly  to  the  soul,  for  it  contains 
all  that  Hellenic  civilization  has  given  of  the  most 
beautiful  in  plastic  art,  and  she  gave  this  with  the  whole 
power  of  Grecian  genius.  Surely  Thucydides  had  the 
Acropolis  in  mind  when  he  said  that  had  Athens  suc- 
cumbed to  a  catastrophe,  mankind  would  think  from  the 
ruins  left  behind  by  her  that  she  was  a  city  twofold  more 
powerful  than  she  was  in  reality.  But  Athens  was  four 
times  more  powerful  than  Thucydides  imagined.  Now 
the  ancient  city  has  succumbed  to  disaster,  and  is  lying 
in  ruins ;  but  the  genius  of  Athens  created  too  much  to 
let  humanity  forget  what  it  owes  to  her.  The  debt  was 
forgotten  too  long ;  but  duties  like  that  bind  the  memory 
as  well  as  the  conscience.  Thanks  to  these  feelings,  this 
glorious  land  was  snatched  from  the  Turk. ,  Not  political 
interest  alone  commanded  the  resurrection  of  Greece ; 
that  was  a  debt  which  Europe  had  to  pay,  it  was  a 
question  of  shame  simply.  There  are  questions  which 
the  most  dissolute  conscience  is  unable  to  tolerate ;  and 
because  of  that  a  moment  came  when  cannon  roared  at 
Navarino.  But  we  may  be  sure  that  had  it  not  been  for 
the  immense  balance  with  which  civilization  had  credited 


A  JOURNEY  TO   ATHENS.  567 

Greece,  had  it  not  been  for  her  glory  and  her  deeds,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  poetry  of  Homer,  for  the  memories  of 
Marathon  and  Salamis,  for  those  remains  of  the  Acropolis 
masterpieces,  pashas  might  have  their  harems  yet  in 
the  Erechtheum,  and  the  banner  of  the  Prophet  might 
be  waving  to-day  from  the  summit  of  the  Acropolis. 
So  if  we  say  that  modern  Greece  was  raised  up  by  Homer, 
Miltiades,  Leonidas,  Themistocles,  Phidias,  Pericles,  and 
other  heroes  or  geniuses  of  similar  stature,  it  will  not  be 
a  figure  of  rhetoric,  but  a  truth  in  history.  While  toil- 
ing for  the  glory  of  their  people,  they  toiled,  without 
knowing  it,  for  their  resurrection ;  and  those  immortal 
agents  have  made  Greece  a  living  fact  at  this  moment. 


ZOLA. 

("DOCTOR  PASCAL.") 


ZOLA. 

("DOCTOR  PASCAL.") 

YOU  wish  me  to  declare  what  I  think  of  Zola's  "  Doc- 
tor Pascal,"  and  iii  general  of  the  whole  "  Kougon- 
Macquart "  cycle.  Perhaps  because  I  come  of  a  society  in 
which  so  much  power  is  wasted,  every  planned  and  com- 
pleted work  fills  me  with  real  respect,  and  has  for  me 
also  some  wonderful  and  exceptional  charm.  Whenever 
I  write  "  The  End "  at  the  close  of  any  work  of  mine,  I 
feel  something  like  a  sensation  of  delight,  not  only  because 
the  labor  is  done,  not  only  because  of  the  possible  success 
of  the  book,  but  also  because  of  the  sensation  which  comes 
of  finished  work.  Every  book  is  a  deed,  good  or  evil,  but 
a  deed  that  is  done.  A  whole  series  of  books,  especially 
when  written  in  the  name  of  one  leading  idea,  is  a  life 
task  accomplished  ;  it  is  a  harvest-home  festival  at  which 
the  leader  of  the  workmen  has  earned  the  right  to  a  gar- 
land and  the  song,  "  I  bring  fruit,  I  bring  fruit ! " 

But  evidently  the  character  of  the  service  depends  on 
the  fruit.  The  career  of  a  writer  has  difficulties  of  which 
readers  do  not  even  dream.  The  land-tiller  who  draws 
grain  sheaves  to  his  barn  has  this  perfect  certainty,  that 
he  is  bringing  in  wheat,  barley,  buckwheat,  or  rye  which 
will  go  to  support  people's  health.  An  author,  writing 
even  in  the  very  best  faith,  may  have  moments  of  doubt : 
Has  he  been  giving  poison  instead  of  bread  ?  Is  not  his 
work  one  great  mistake,  one  great  fault  ?  Has  it  done 
good?  Would  it  not  have  been  better  for  men  and  for 


572  ZOLA. 

him  if  he  had  done  nothing,  if  he  had  written  nothing,  if 
he  had  remained  idle  ? 

Doubts  are  the  enemy  of  human  peace,  but  they  are 
also  a  filter  which  lets  no  foul  sediment  pass.  It  is  bad 
to  have  too  many  doubts,  bad  to  have  too  few ;  in  the  first 
case,  power  of  action  is  lost ;  in  the  second,  conscience. 
Hence  the  need  of  an  external  regulator,  —  a  need  as  old 
as  humanity. 

But  French  writers  have  ever  distinguished  themselves 
by  a  boldness  incomparably  greater  than  that  of  other 
authors  ;  hence  that  regulator  which  in  some  countries 
has  been  religion  has  ceased  long  since  to  exist  for 
them.  Exceptions  have  appeared,  it  is  true.  Balzac 
asserted  that  his  task  was  to  serve  religion  and  the  mon- 
archy. But  even  the  works  of  those  who  proclaimed  such 
principles  were  not  always  in  accord  with  the  principles. 
It  might  have  been  said  that  it  suited  authors  to  under- 
stand their  activity  in  that  way ;  but  the  reading  public 
could  understand  it,  and  often  did  understand  it,  to  be  a 
negation  of  social,  religious,  and  ethical  principles.  In 
the  most  recent  epoch,  however,  such  misunderstandings 
have  become  impossible,  for  authors  began  to  appear 
openly,  either  in  the  name  of  their  own  personal  con- 
victions, which  reckoned  with  nothing  and  were  directly 
opposed  to  the  bases  and  bonds  of  society,  or  with  objec- 
tive analysis,  which  in  the  examination  of  life  notes  good 
and  evil  as  phenomena  equally  inevitable  and  equally 
justifiable.  France,  and  through  France  the  rest  of  Eu- 
rope, was  flooded  with  a  deluge  of  books  written  so 
frivolously,  freely,  and  offensively,  books  with  no  trace 
in  them  of  a  feeling  of  responsibility  to  mankind,  that 
even  those  who  took  them  up,  also  without  scruple,  were 
soon  astounded.  It  seemed  that  every  author  had  set  out 
with  the  intent  to  go  even  farther  than  had  been  expected 


ZOLA.  573 

of  him.  In  this  way  men  acquired  the  reputation  of 
daring  thinkers  and  original  artists.  Boldness  in  the 
choice  of  subjects,  and  in  the  method  of  treating  them, 
seemed  the  most  precious  quality  of  a  writer.  To  this 
was  added  bad  faith,  or  an  unconscious  deception  of 
self  and  others  —  Analysis  !  They  analyzed  in  the  name  of 
truth,  —  which,  as  it  were,  must  and  ought  to  be  declared, 
—  everything,  but  especially  evil,  dirt,  human  corruption, 
and  foulness.  They  did  not  notice  that  this  false  an- 
alysis ceased  to  be  an  objective  examination,  and  became 
a  morbid  fondness  for  decay,  flowing  from  two  causes  : 
first,  corruption  of  taste ;  second,  from  the  greater  ease  of 
producing  striking  effects.  They  took  advantage  of  this 
physiological  peculiarity  of  the  senses  through  which  re-, 
pulsive  impressions  seem  more  vigorous  and  real  than 
agreeable  ones,  and  they  abused  this  peculiarity  beyond 
measure.  They  created  a  certain  kind  of  commercial 
travelling  in  the  interests  of  rottenness,  with  a  prompt 
use  of  subjects ;  it  was  a  question  to  find  something  new, 
something  which  might  draw  yet.  Truth  itself,  in  whose 
name  this  was  done,  retired  before  these  efforts.  Take 
Zola's  "  La  Terre."  This  novel  was  to  contain  the  picture 
of  a  French  village.  Call  to  mind  any  village  of  France, 
or  another  country.  What  is  it  as  a  whole  ?  A  collection 
of  cottages,  trees,  ploughed  fields,  stretches  of  grain,  wild 
flowers,  people,  cattle,  sunlight,  blue  skies,  songs,  petty 
village  interests,  and  work.  In  all  this  doubtless  manure 
plays  no  small  part,  but  there  is  something  beyond  and 
aside  from  it.  Meanwhile  Zola's  village  looks  as  if  com- 
posed only  of  ordure  and  crime.  And  this  picture  is  false, 
it  is  truth  perverted,  for  in  nature  the  real  relation  of 
things  is  different.  If  any  man  were  to  give  himself  the 
trouble  of  making  a  list  of  the  women  in  a  French  novel, 
he  would  be  convinced  that  at  least  ninety-five  per  cent 


574  ZOLA. 

of  them  had  fallen.  Meanwhile  in  society  it  is  not  so, 
and  cannot  be  so.  Likely  there  has  never  been  such  a 
proportion  even  in  countries  where,  on  a  time,  Astarte 
was  worshipped.  And  still  authors  wish  to  persuade  us 
that  they  give  a  true  picture  of  society,  and  that  their 
analysis  of  morals  is  taken  from  life.  Lying,  exaggeration, 
admiration  of  rottenness,  —  that  is  an  accurate  picture  of 
the  literary  harvest  in  most  recent  times.  I  know  not 
what  literature  has  gained  from  it ;  but  I  do  know  that 
the  devil  has  lost  nothing,  for  along  that  way  a  whole 
river  of  poison  and  mud  has  flowed,  and  the  moral  sense 
has  become  so  blunted  that  at  last  it  endures  with  ease 
books  which  a  few  tens  of  years  ago  would  have  brought 
an  author  to  court.  It  is  incredible  at  present  that 
"  Madame  Bovary  "  once  exposed  the  author  to  two  law- 
suits. If  it  had  been  written  twenty-five  years  later,  it 
would  have  been  considered  too  modest. 

But  the  human  mind,  which  never  sleeps,  and  the 
organism  which  strives  to  live,  cannot  endure  excess  of 
poison.  At  last  the  moment  comes  to  cough  out  disgust. 
Voices  are  rising  at  present  which  call  for  mental  bread 
of  another  sort ;  an  instinctive  feeling  is  abroad  that  it  is 
impossible  to  go  farther  in  this  way,  that  men  must  rise 
up,  shake  themselves  free  of  mud,  purify  themselves,  and 
change.  People  are  crying  for  fresh  air.  In  general,  they 
cannot  tell  what  they  want ;  but  they  know  what  they 
do  not  want ;  they  know  that  they  have  been  breathing 
miasmas,  and  have  a  feeling  of  suffocation.  Alarm  pos- 
sesses minds.  In  that  very  France,  men  are  seeking  for 
something,  and  calling  for  something.  A  sort  of  dull  pro- 
test is  rising  against  the  prevailing  order  of  things.  Many 
writers  feel  this  disquiet.  Moments  of  doubt  are  coming 
on  them,  such  as  those  which  we  have  mentioned,  and 
besides  fear  and  bitterness,  strengthened  by  uncertainty 


ZOLA.  575 

as  to  new  roads.  Look  at  the  last  books  of  Bourget, 
Kode,  Barres,  Desjardins,  at  the  poetry  of  Rimbaud,  Ver- 
laine,  Heredes,  Mallarme,  and  even  Maeterlinck  and  his 
school.  What  do  they  contain  ?  A  search  for  new  sub- 
stance and  new  forms ;  a  feverish  search  for  an  issue  of 
some  sort ;  an  uncertainty  whither  to  turn  and  where  to 
look  for  salvation,  whether  in  mysticism,  or  in  faith,  or  in 
the  duties  behind  faith,  or  in  patriotism,  or  in  humanity  ? 
But,  first  of  all,  an  immense  disquiet  is  evident  in  them. 
They  find  no  issue,  since  to  do  that  there  is  need  of  two 
things :  a  great  idea,  and  great  talent,  and  they  have 
neither  the  idea  nor  the  talent.  Hence  disquiet  increases, 
and  these  very  same  persons  who  step  forth  against  the 
rude  pessimism  of  the  naturalistic  school  fall  into  pessim- 
ism themselves,  and  thus  is  weakened  the  main  signif- 
icance and  meaning  which  reform  might  have.  For 
what  remains  to  them  ?  Grotesqueness  of  form.  And 
into  this  grotesqueness,  whether  it  be  called  symbolism 
or  impressionism,  they  wade  deeper  and  deeper ;  they  are 
more  and  more  perplexed,  and  lose  artistic  balance,  sound 
sense,  repose  of  soul.  Frequently  they  fall  into  the  former 
rottenness  with  respect  to  substance,  and  are  almost  always 
in  discord  with  themselves,  for  they  have  both  the  proper 
and  fundamental  feeling  that  they  must  give  the  world 
something  new,  but  know  not  what  it  is. 

Such  is  the  present  moment ! 

Any  purloiner  of  public  or  private  funds,  any  murderer, 
may  appeal  to  a  neurotic  grandmother ;  but  courts  put 
such  people  behind  prison  bars  in  spite  of  the  "  Rougon- 
Macquart"  cycle  of  volumes.  The  evil  lies  not  in  par- 
ticular circumstances ;  but  in  this,  that  an  unparalleled 
pessimism  and  depression  is  flowing  into  men's  souls 
from  such  literature,  that  life's  charm,  hope,  energy, 
the  desire  to  live,  and  therefore  the  desire  of  all  efforts 


576  ZOLA. 

in  the  direction  of  good,  disappears  in  them.  What  is 
the  use?  This  is  the  question  which  thrusts  itself 
forward.  But  a  book  is  one  agent  in  the  education  of 
the  human  soul.  If  at  least  the  reader  could  find  in  Zola's 
books  the  good  and  bad  sides  of  life  in  balancing  relation, 
or  at  the  worst  in  such  relation  as  they  are  found  in 
reality !  Vain  hope.  One  must  reach  high  to  get  colors 
from  the  aurora  or  the  rainbow  ;  but  every  man  has  spit- 
tle in  his  mouth,  and  it  is  easier  to  paint  with  it.  This 
painter  from  nature  prefers  cheap  effects  ;  he  prefers  foul 
odors  to  perfumes,  rottenness  to  living  blood,  decayed 
wood  to  healthy  sap,  manure  to  flowers,  la  Mte  humaine 
to  I'dme  humaine. 

If  we  could  bring  in  some  inhabitant  of  Mars  or  Venus, 
and  command  him  to  make  a  conclusion  from  Zola's  novels 
touching  life  upon  earth,  he  would  answer  undoubtedly  : 
"  Life  is  a  little  clean  sometimes  as  le  r$ve,  but  in  gen- 
eral it  is  something  with  a  very  bad  odor ;  often  it  is 
slippery,  oftenest  of  all  it  is  terrible."  And  even  if  those 
theories  on  which  Zola  builds  were  recognized  truths,  as 
they  are  not,  what  a  lack  of  mercy  to  represent  life  as  he 
does  to  people  who  in  every  case  must  live  !  Did  he  do 
this  to  cast  them  down,  disgust  them,  befoul  them,  poison 
every  activity,  paralyze  every  energy,  and  take  away  the 
desire  for  all  thought  ?  In  view  of  this,  his  talent  is  evil 
indeed.  Better  for  him,  better  for  France,  that  he  had  it 
not.  And  at  moments  one  is  astonished  that  fear  does 
not  seize  him,  when  even  those  are  alarmed  who  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  analysis,  he  the  only  man  with 
a  calm  forehead  finishes  his  "  Rougon-Macquart "  as  if 
he  were  strengthening  instead  of  breaking  the  vital  force 
of  the  French.  Why  does  it  not  occur  to  him,  that  peo- 
ple, nourished  on  that  foul  bread  and  polluted  water,  will 
not  only  fail  to  resist  the  storm,  but  will  not  even  have 


ZOLA.  577 

the  wish  to  resist  it  ?  Musset,  in  his  time,  wrote  the 
famous  verse,  "  We  have  had  your  German  Rhine."  Zola 
so  instructs  his  society  that  if  all  which  he  inculcates 
were  really  accepted  a  second  verse  of  Musset's  might 
sound  as  follows,  "  But  to-day  we  give  you  even  the 
Seine."  But  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that  yet. 

"  La  Debacle,"  in  spite  of  its  blunders,  is  a  famous 
book  ;  but  the  soldiers  who  read  it  are  inferior  to  those 
who  at  night  sing,  "  Christ  has  arisen  ! " 

If  I  were  a  Frenchman,  I  should  consider  Zola's  talent 
a  national  misfortune,  and  rejoice  that  his  epoch  is  passing, 
that  even  his  most  intimate  disciples  are  abandoning  their 
master,  that  he~  is  left  more  and  more  to  himself. 

Will  he  remain  in  the  memory  of  men,  in  literature ; 
will  his  fame  survive  ?  It  is  difficult  to  foresee ;  it  is  per- 
mitted to  doubt.  In  the  cycle  "  Rougon-Macquart "  are 
volumes  really  powerful,  such  as  "  Germinal "  or  "  La 
Debacle."  But  in  general  all  that  Zola's  native  talent 
has  done  to  make  him  immortal  has  been  ruined  by  his 
admiration  for  foul  realism,  and  by  his  tongue,  which  is 
simply  vile.  Literature  must  not  employ  expressions 
which  even  boors  are  ashamed4,o_use_jimong  themselves. 
Realistic  truth,  in  so  far  as  concerns  criminals,  the  fallen,  or 
wretches,  is  reached  by  another  method,  through  truthful 
rendering  of  their  conditions  of  mind,  through  acts,  finally 
by  the  course  of  their  speech,  but  not  through  a  literal  quo- 
tation of  their  _curses  and  most  repulsive  phrases.  So  in 
the  choice  of  images,  as  in  the  choice  of  words,  there  is  a 
certain  measure  which  is  dictated  by  judgment  and  good 
taste.  Zola  has  passed  this  measure  to  such  a  degree  (in 
"  La  Terre  ")  as  no  man  had  dared  up  to  that  time.  Mon- 
strosities are  condemned  to  death,  because  they  are  mon- 
strous. A  book  which  rouses  disgust  must  be  cast  aside. 
That  lies  also  in  the  nature  of  things.  Among  produc- 

37 


578  ZOLA. 

tions  of  universal  literature,  rude  things  intended  to  rouse 
laughter  have  survived  (Aristophanes  and  Rabelais),  or 
wanton  things  written  exquisitely  (Boccaccio);  but  not  one 
production  has  survived  which  was  intended  to  rouse  dis- 
gust. Zola,  for  the  noise  made  by  his  books,  for  the  scandal 
which  every  single  volume  called  forth,  killed  his  future. 
Therefore  this  wonderful  thing  happened,  that  he,  a  man 
writing  on  a  settled  plan,  writing  with  deliberation,  cool, 
and  commanding  his  subject  as  few  command,  has  pro- 
duced the  best  things  only  when  he  had  the  least  chance 
of  carrying  out  his  plans,  doctrines,  and  methods ;  in  a 
word,  when  he  commanded  his  subject  least,  and  when 
the  subject  commanded  him  most. 

So  it  happened  in  "  Germinal "  and  "  La  Debacle."  The 
immensity  of  socialism,  and  the  immensity  of  the  war, 
simply  crushed  Zola,  with  his  entire  mental  apparatus. 
His  doctrines  were  belittled  before  such  proportions,  and 
could  hardly  be  heard  in  the  roar  of  the  deluge  which 
filled  up  the  mine,  and  in  the  thunder  of  the  Prussian 
cannons.  His  talent  alone  remained.  So  in  these  two 
novels  there  are  genuine  pictures  worthy  of  Dante.  With 
"  Doctor  Pascal,"  the  contrary  happened.  As  the  last  vol- 
ume of  the  cycle,  it  had  to  be  the  concluding  induction 
from  the  whole  work,  —  a  synthesis  of  his  doctrine,  the 
tower  finishing  the  structure.  For  this  reason  there  is 
more  mention  made  in  it  of  doctrine  than  in  any  preceding 
volu  me ;  but  since  the  doctrine  is  bad,  pitiful,  false,  and 
empty,  "Doctor  Pascal"  is  the  poorest  and  dreariest  volume 
of  the  whole  cycle.  A  series  of  empty,  barren  pictures,  in 
which  dreariness  goes  hand  in  hand  with  lack  of  moral 
sense,  pallor  of  images  with  falseness,  —  that  is  Doctor 
Pascal.  Zola  wants  to  present  him  as  a  decent  man.  He 
is  a  degeneration  of  the  Rougon-Macquarts.  In  heredity 
such  happy  degenerations  are  met,  —  the  Doctor  knows 


ZOLA.  579 

this ;  he  looks  on  himself  as  a  blessed  degeneration,  and 
this  is  for  him  a  source  of  unceasing,  heartfelt  delight. 
Meanwhile  he  loves  people,  serves  them,  and  injects  into 
them  a  liquid  discovered  by  himself,  which  is  a  cure  for 
all  ailments.  He  is  a  mild  sage  who  investigates  life, 
hence  collects  "  human  documents,"  fits  together  with 
toil  a  genealogical  tree  of  the  family  Rougon-Macquart, 
of  which  he  is  a  descendant;  and,  in  virtue  of  his  observa- 
tions, he  reaches  the  same  conclusions  as  Zola.  What  are 
they  ?  It  is  difficult  to  answer ;  they  are,  more  or  less,  the 
following :  Whoever  is  not  well  is  generally  ill ;  heredity 
exists,  but  mothers  or  fathers  coining  from  other  families 
bring  in  new  elements  to  the  blood  of  children,  so  that 
heredity  may  be  modified  to  such  a  degree  that,  taking 
matters  strictly,  there  is  no  heredity. 

Doctor  Pascal  is,  moreover,  a  positivist.  He  does  not 
wish  to  prejudge,  but  he  asserts  that  the  present  condition 
of  science  will  not  let  him  make  inferences  which  trans- 
cend known  facts ;  therefore  he  must  adhere  to  known 
facts  and  neglect  others.  In  this  regard  his  judgments 
tell  us  nothing  newer  than  the  articles  of  the  newspapers 
written  by  young  positivists.  For  people  who  are  rush- 
ing forward  because  of  spiritual  needs  which  are  as  in- 
sistent as  hunger  and  thirst,  —  needs  in  virtue  of  which  a 
man  is  conscious  of  such  conceptions  as  God,  faith,  im- 
mortality, —  the  Doctor  has  merely  a  smile  of  commisera- 
tion. And  one  might  wonder  at  him  somewhat.  He  would 
be  understood  better  if  he  did  not  recognize  the  possibility 
of  solving  various  abstract  questions;  but  he  asserts  that 
the  necessity  of  solving  them  does  not  exist,  —  by  which 
he  sins  against  evidence ;  for  such  a  necessity  exists,  not 
farther  away  than  under  his  own  roof,  in  the  person 
of  his  niece.  That  young  lady,  reared  in  his  principles, 
loses  the  ground  from  under  her  feet  all  at  once.  More 


580  ZOLA. 

problems  are  born  in  her  soul  than  the  Doctor  can  answer. 
And  from  that  moment  the  drama  begins  for  them  both. 

"  I  cannot  stop  here,"  cries  the  niece, "  I  am  suffocating ; 
I  must  know  something,  be  certain  of  something ;  and  if 
thy  science  cannot  pacify  my  pressing  need,  I  will  go 
to  persons  who  will  not  only  pacify  it  and  explain  every- 
thing, but  make  me  happy,  —  I  will  go  to  the  church!" 

And  she  goes.  The  roads  of  the  master  and  pupil  di- 
verge more.  The  pupil  reaches  the  conviction  that  that 
science  which  is  only  a  halter  around  the  neck  of  people 
is  simply  an  evil,  and  that  it  would  be  a  service  before 
God  to  burn  those  old  papers  on  which  the  Doctor  is 
writing  his  observations.  And  the  drama  intensifies ; 
for,  in  spite  of  the  sixty  years  of  the  Doctor  and  the 
twenty  years  and  something  of  Clotilda,  these  two  people 
now  love  each  other,  not  merely  as  relatives,  but  as  a 
man  and  woman  love.  That  love  adds  bitterness  to  the 
battle,  and  hastens  the  catastrophe. 

Amid  those  who  grope  in  the  dark,  wandering  and 
disquieted,  one  above  all  remains  calm,  sure  of  himself 
and  his  doctrine,  unmoved  and  almost  serene  in  his 
pessimism,  —  Emile  Zola.  A  great  talent,  a  power  slow 
but  immense  and  patient,  an  amazing  power  of  observ- 
ing feelings,  for  it  almost  equals  indifference,  a  gift  of 
seeing  the  collective  soul  of  people  and  things,  a  power 
so  exceptional  that  it  brings  this  naturalistic  writer  near 
the  mystics,  and  makes  him  an  uncommon  and  very 
original  figure. 

The  physical  face  of  a  man  does  not  always  reflect  his 
spiritual  personality.  In  Zola  this  connection  appears 
very  emphatically.  A  square  face,  a  forehead  low  and 
covered  with  wrinkles,  large  features,  high  shoulders,  and 
a  short  neck  give  his  figure  something  rude.  From  his 
face,  and  the  wrinkles  around  his  eyes,  you  would  divine 


ZOLA.  581 

that  he  is  a  man  who  can  endure  much,  that  he  can  bear 
much,  —  stubborn  and  enduring  to  fanaticism,  not  only 
in  his  plans  and  their  realization,  but,  which  is  the  main 
thing,  in  thought.  There  is  no  quickness  in  him.  It  is 
evident  at  the  first  glance  that  he  is  a  doctrinaire  shut 
up  in  himself,  who,  as  a  doctrinaire,  does  not  take  in  broad 
horizons,  —  sees  everything  at  a  certain  angle  and  nar- 
rowly, but  definitely.  His  mind,  like  a  dark  lantern, 
casts  a  narrow  light  in  one  direction  only,  and  goes  in 
that  direction  with  unswerving  certainty.  And  this  ex- 
plains at  once  the  history  of  that  whole  series  of  books 
bearing  the  general  title,  "  Les  Rougon-Macquart."  Zola 
resolved  to  write  the  history  of  a  given  family  during  the 
Empire,  on  the  basis  of  conditions  which  the  Empire  cre- 
ated, and  to  illustrate  the  law  of  heredity.  It  was  even 
a  greater  question  than  to  illustrate,  for  heredity  was  to 
become  the  physiological  basis  of  the  work. 

There  is  a  certain  contradiction  in  the  plan.  The 
Rougon-Macquarts,  taking  them  historically,  were  to  be 
a  picture  of  French  society  during  recent  times,  and  the 
normal  phenomena  of  its  life  ;  so  they  should  themselves 
be  a  family  more  or  less  normal.  But  in  such  case, 
what  would  become  of  heredity  ?  It  is  certain  that  nor- 
mal families  are  such  also  by  virtue  of  heredity.  But 
to  show  it  in  those  conditions  is  impossible ;  so  it  must 
be  done  in  deviations  from  the  regular  type.  The 
Rougons  are  in  fact  a  sickly  family.  They  are  children 
of  neurosis.  The  ancestress  of  the  family  fell  into  it,  and 
thenceforth  her  descendants  were  born  with  her  brand  on 
the  forehead.  Such  is  the  wish  of  the  author,  and  we 
must  accept.  But  how  the  history  of  a  family  exception- 
ally affected  with  mental  aberrations  could  be  at  the  same 
time  a  picture  of  French  society,  the  author  does  not  ex- 
plain to  us.  If  he  answered  that  during  the  Empire  all 


582  ZOLA. 

society  was  sick,  that  would  be  a  subterfuge.  Society 
may  go  by  a  ruinous  road,  politically  or  socially,  as  Polish 
society  did  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  be  sick  as  a 
whole,  but  be  made  up  of  individuals  and  families  who 
are  healthy.  These  are  two  different  things.  One  of  two 
issues,  then  :  either  the  Rougons  are  sick,  and  the  cycle 
of  novels  concerning  them  is  a  psychological  study,  not  a 
picture  of  France  during  the  Empire  ;  or,  the  whole  psy- 
chological basis,  all  that  heredity  on  which  the  cycle  is 
built,  —  in  a  word,  Zola's  entire  doctrine,  —  is  nonsense. 
I  do  not  know  whether  any  one  has  ever  turned  Zola's 
attention  to  this,  aut  aut  (either  or).  It  is  certain  that 
he  himself  has  never  turned  his  attention  to  it.  Prob- 
ably that  would  have  had  no  influence  on  him,  just  as  the 
critics  of  his  theory  of  heredity  had  not.  Both  literary 
men  and  physiologists  have  appeared  against  him  re- 
peatedly with  a  whole  supply  of  irresistible  proofs.  Noth- 
ing helped  in  any  way.  They  contended  in  vain  that  in 
exact  science  the  theory  of  heredity  had  not  been  inves- 
tigated or  studied  to  the  end,  and,  what, was  most  impor- 
tant, it  was  impossible  thus  far  to  grasp  it  and  to  prove 
it  through  facts ;  in  vain  did  they  show  that  physiology 
could  not  be  fantastic,  that  its  proofs  could  not  be  sub- 
jected to  the  arbitrary  ideas  of  an  author.  Zola  listened, 
wrote  on,  and  in  the  final  volume  of  his  work  added  the 
genealogical  tree  of  the  family  of  Rougon-Macquart  with 
as  much  calmness  as  if  no  one  had  ever  brought  his  theory 
into  doubt. 

That  tree  has  one  good  side.  It  is  so  pretentious  that 
it  is  brought  to  ridicule,  and  deprives  the  theory  of  the 
remnant  of  dignity  which  it  might  have  had  for  minds 
less  independent.  We  learn  from  the  tree  that  a  stock 
springs  from  a  great-grandmother  who  is  nervously  ill, 
also  of  light  conduct.  But  the  man  who  should  think 


ZOLA.  588 

that  her  neurosis  would  appear  in  her  descendants,  just  as 
might  happen  in  the  physical  sphere,  in  a  certain  unmixed 
manner,  in  some  special  inclination  to  something,  or  in 
some  passion,  would  be  mistaken.  On  the  contrary,  the 
wonderful  tree  produces  the  most  varied  fruit :  red  ap- 
ples, peaches,  plums,  dates,  and  whatever  any  one  wants. 
And  all  this  because  of  the  great-grandmother's  neurosis  ! 
Does  this  happen  in  nature  ?  We  do  not  know.  Zola 
himself  has  no  data  for  it  except  pretended  cuttings  from 
newspapers  describing  various  crimes,  which  he  preserves 
carefully  as  "  human  documents,"  which  he  manipulates 
according  to  his  own  fancy.  And  he  is  free  to  do  this  ; 
only,  let  him  not  sell  us  these  fancies  as  the  eternal  and 
unchangeable  laws  of  nature.  The  grandmother  had 
neurosis;  her  nearest  friends  had  the  habit  of  seeking, 
not  in  an  apothecary  shop,  medicine  for  affliction ;  hence 
the  descendants,  male  and  female,  are  that  which  they 
had  to  be,  —  namely,  criminals,  scoundrels,  streetwalkers, 
decent  people,  saints,  statesmen,  good-for-nothings,  pro- 
curesses, bankers,  agriculturists,  murderers,  priests,  sol- 
diers, ministers :  in  a  word,  everything  which  in  the 
spheres  of  thought,  soundness,  property,  position,  and 
career  both  men  and  women  can  be  and  are,  the  whole 
world  over.  And  we  are  amazed  in  spite  of  us.  Well, 
what  is  the  position  then  ?  All  happens  because  the 
great-grandmother  was  neurotic  ?  Yes !  answers  the 
author.  But  if  Adelaide  Fouque*  had  not  been  neurotic, 
her  descendants  would  have  had  to  be  good  or  bad, 
and  be  occupied  with  that  with  which  men  or  women 
are  occupied  in  the  world  usually  ?  Of  course !  answers 
Zola,  but  Adelaide  Fouque'  had  the  neurosis.  And  fur- 
ther discussion  becomes  simply  impossible  ;  for  we  have 
to  do  with  a  man  who  takes  his  own  arbitrary  fancy  for 
a  law  of  nature,  and  whose  mind  does  not  answer  to  the 


584  ZOLA. 

ordinary  key  furnished  by  logic.  Well,  he  built  a  gene- 
alogical tree ;  the  tree  might  have  been  different,  but  if 
it  had  been,  he  would  have  contended  that  it  could  only 
be  as  it  is,  and  it  would  be  easier  to  kill  than  convince 
him  that  his  theory  was  valueless. 

For  that  matter,  the  theory  is  of  this  sort,  —  that  there 
is  really  nothing  to  dispute  about.  People  have  said 
long  ago  that  Zola  had  one  good  thing,  his  talent ;  and 
one  bad  thing,  his  doctrine.  If,  as  a  result  of  neurosis 
inherited  from  one  and  the  same  ancestor,  one  might  be 
as  well  a  thief  as  an  honest  man,  Nana  as  well  as  a  sister 
of  charity,  a  brute  as  well  as  a  sage,  a  laborer  as  well  as 
Achilles,  then  there  is  a  bridge  which  does  not  exist,  and 
there  is  a  heredity  which  is  not.  A  man  may  be  what  he 
wishes  himself.  The  field  for  free-will  and  responsibility 
is  completely  open,  and  all  those  moral  bases  on  which 
the  life  of  man  rests  come  uninjured  from  the  fire.  One 
might  say  to  the  author,  That  is  too  "  much  ado  about 
nothing,"  finish  with  him  as  with  a  doctrinaire,  and  count 
with  him  only  as  with  a  talent.  But  he  wants  something 
else.  Though  his  doctrine  has  no  connection,  and  is  simply 
nothing,  he  draws  other  conclusions  from  it.  His  whole 
cycle  of  books  say  expressly,  and  without  double  meaning : 
"  Whatever  thou  art,  saint  or  criminal,  thou  art  through 
heredity :  thou  art  that  which  thou  must  be,  and  in  no 
case  is  it  thy  fault  or  merit."  Ah,  this  is  the  question 
of  responsibility !  This  is  neither  the  time  nor  the 
place  to  touch  it.  Philosophy  has  not  found  a  proof 
that  man  exists,  unless  the  Cartesian  "  cogito  ergo  sum  "  is 
proof  sufficient.  The  question  is  still  open.  The  same 
thing  with  responsibility.  Whole  ages  of  philosophy 
may  assert  what  they  like,  man  has  the  internal  con- 
viction that  he  exists,  and  the  no  less  mighty  convic- 
tion that  he  is  responsible ;  and  his  whole  life,  without 


ZOLA.  585 

reference  to  theory,  is  founded  on  such  a  conviction. 
Moreover,  exact  science  has  not  decided  the  question  of 
will  and  responsibility.  Against  considerations  may  be 
cited  considerations  ;  against  opinions,  opinions  ;  against 
inferences,  inferences.  But  for  Zola  the  question  is  de- 
cided. There  is  no  responsibility ;  there  is  only  some 
grandmother  Adelaide,  or  some  grandfather  Jacques,  from 
whom  all  come.  And  here,  to  my  thinking,  begins  the 
ruinous  influence  of  this  writer;  for  he  not  only  pre- 
jnHap.s  iin/lp.Qirlftd  questions,  but  he  popularizes  his  preju- 
dices, ingrafts  and  facilitates  dissolution. 

A  certain  night  the  Doctor  caught  his  niece  in  crime. 
She  had  made  her  way  to  his  bureau,  had  drawn  out  his 
papers,  and  was  preparing  to  burn  them.  He  and  she  fell 
to  fighting.  A  pretty  picture !  He  in  his  linen,  she  in 
ther  nightdress  ;  they  wrestle,  they  pull,  they  scratch.  He 
is  stronger,  and  she,  though  he  bruised  her  and  drew 
blood,  experienced  a  certain  agreeableness  in  feeling  on 
her  own  maiden  skin  the  strength  of  a  man.  And  in  this 
is  all  Zola,  But  let  us  listen,  for  the  decisive  moment 
is  approaching.  The  Doctor  himself,  after  he  has  panted 
somewhat,  talks  to  her  solemnly.  The  reader  is  impa- 
tient. Is  the  Doctor,  by  the  power  of  his  genius,  to 
rend  the  night  sky  and  show  her  a  wilderness  beyond 
the  stars,  or,  by  the  might  of  eloquence,  to  hurl  into  the 
dust  her  church,  her  beliefs,  her  impulses,  her  hopes  ? 
At  once  this  verse  occurs  to  one, — 

"  Darkness  on  all  sides,  silence  on  all  sides, 
What  will  come  now,  what  will  come  now  ?  " 

In  the  silence  was  heard  the  low  voice  of  the  Doctor : 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  show  thee  this,  but  it  is  not  possible 
to  live  thus  any  longer ;  the  hour  has  come.  Give  me  the 
genealogical  tree  of  the  family  Kougon-Macquart." 


586  ZOLA. 

"  What  is  that  ?     What  is  that  ? " 

"  Yes  !  The  genealogical  tree  of  the  family  Rougon- 
Macquart !  The  reading  begin's  in  silence :  There  was 
one  Adelaide  Fouque'  who  had  as  husband  Eougon  and  a 
friend  Macquart.  From  Rougon  was  born  Eugene  Rou- 
gon,  also  Pascal  Rougon,  also  Aristides,  also  Sidonia,  also 
Martha.  From  Aristides  was  born  Maxim,  also  Clotilda, 
also  Victor.  From  Maxim  was  born  Charles,  and  that  is 
the  end  ;  but  Sidonia  had  a  daughter  Angela,  and  Martha, 
who  married  Mouret,  who  came  from  the  Macquarts,  she 
had  three  children,  etc." 

The  night  Basses  without  incident,  but  the  reading  con- 
tinues. After  the  Rougons  come  the  Macquarts;  later,  the 
descendants  of  both  families  united.  Name  follows  name, 
surname  surname.  They  appear  evil,  they  appear  good, 
they  appear  indifferent ;  all  positions  appear,  ministers, 
bankers,  great  merchants,  simple  soldiers,  or  scoundrels 
without  occupation  ;  finally  the  Doctor  stops  reading,  and, 
looking  with  the  eyes  of  a  sage  on  his  niece,  asks,  — 

Well,  and  what  now  ? 

But  the  beautiful  Clotilda  throws  herself  into  his 
embraces. 

"  Thou  hast  conquered !     Thou  hast  conquered  I " 

And  her  God,  her  faith,  her  church,  her  impulses  toward 
ideals,  her  needs  of  soul  scatter  into  dust. 

Why  ?  In  virtue  of  what  inferences  ?  For  what  good 
reason  ?  In  that  tree  what  could  convince  her  or  exercise 
any  kind  of  influence  save  tedium  ?  But  why  did  not 
this  question  come  from  her  lips  which  occurs  to  the 
reader  invincibly,  "  But  what  of  that  ? "  It  is  unknown. 
I  have  never  noted  that  any  author  obtained  such  great 
and  immediate  results  from  such  an  empty  and  remote 
cause.  This  is  something  as  astonishing  as  if  Zola  had 
commanded  the  faith  and  the  principles  of  Clotilda  to 


ZOLA.  587 

all  into  dust  because  the  Doctor  had  read  to  her  an 
almanac,  a  railroad  guide,  a  bill  of  fare,  or  a  catalogue 
of  any  museum.  The  arbitrariness  passes  all  bounds,  and 
is  simply  beyond  understanding.  The  reader  inquires  if 
the  author  is  deceiving  himself,  or  casting  dust  in  the  eyes 
of  the  public.  And  this  culminating  point  of  the  novel  is 
its  fall,  and  the  fall  of  the  whole  doctrine.  Clotilda  ought 
to  have  answered  as  follows,  — 

"  Thy  theory  does  not  stand  in  any  relation  to  my  faith 
in  God  and  the  church.  Thy  theory  is  so  disconnected 
that  by  virtue  of  it  one  may  be  everything,  and  the 
theory  itself  becomes  nothing ;  therefore  all  thy  further 
inferences  from  it  rest  also  on  nothing.  According  to  thee 
Nana  is  a  streetwalker,  and  Angela  a  saint ;  Father  Mou- 
ret  an  ascetic ;  Jacque  Lotier  a  murderer,  —  and  all  be- 
cause of  grandmother  Adelaide  ?  But  I  will  tell  thee  with 
a  greater  likelihood  that  the  good  are  good  because  they 
have  my  faith,  because  they  believe  in  responsibility  and 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  the  sinners  ^are  sinners 
because  they  believe  in  nothing.  How  wilt  thou  prove  to 
me  that  the  reason  of  good  and  evil  is  Adelaide  Fouqud  ? 
Wilt  thou  assure  me  with  thy  word  simply,  or  repeat  that 
it  is  so  because  it  is  so ;  but  I  can  say  to  thee  that  faith 
and  a  feeling  of  responsibility  have  for  ages  been  a  barrier 
against  evil,  and  if  as  a  positivist  thou  wish  to  reckon 
even  a  little  with  reality,  thou  wilt  not  be  able  to  contra- 
dict. In  one  word,  I  have  objective  proof,  while  thou 
hast  only  thy  personal  '  it  seems  to  me ; '  that  being  the 
case,  leave  me  my  faith,  and  throw  thy  fantastic  tree  into 
the  fire." 

But  Clotilda  answers  nothing  of  the  kind.  On  the 
contrary,  she  eats  immediately  an  apple  from  that  vain 
tree,  and  goes  over  soul  and  body  to  the  camp  of  the  Doc- 
tor, and  she  acts  thus  only  and  exclusively  because  it 


588  ZOLA. 

pleases  Zola.     There  is  no  other  reason,  and  there  can- 
not be. 

If  she  had  gone  over  out  of  love  for  the  Doctor,  if  this 
reason,  which  in  a  woman  can  play  such  a  great  role,  had 
really  played  it,  I  should  have  understood  the  matter. 
But  no  !  For  in  such  case  what  would  have  happened 
with  Zola's  whole  doctrine  ?  For  it  is  the  doctrine  alone 
which  influences  Clotilda ;  it  is  her  reasoning  side  which 
the  Doctor  wants  to  have  so  irresistible.  And  he  does 
what  he  wants,  but  simply  at  the  cost  of  logic  and  sound 
sense.  From  that  moment,  everything  is  possible ;  it  is 
possible  to  persuade  the  reader  that  a  man  who  is  not 
loved  makes  a  woman  love  him  through  showing  her  a 
price  list  of  butter  or  of  stearine  candles.  To  such  a 
plight  is  real  and  great  talent  brought  by  doctrinairism. 

It  leads  also  to  a  complete  destruction  of  moral  sense. 
That  heredity  is  a  wall  through  which  as  many  windows 
may  be  pierced  as  one  likes.  The  Doctor  is  such  a  win- 
dow. He  considers  himself  a  degeneration  from  the  family 
neurosis ;  that  is,  he  considers  himself  a  normal  man,  so 
he  would  like  somehow  to  show  his  health  to  posterity. 
Clotilda  is  also  of  the  opinion  that  it  would  not  be  out  of 
the  way,  and,  because  love  unites  them,  therefore  they 
take  each  other.  They  take  each  other  evidently  as  peo- 
ple took  each  other  in  the  time  of  the  cave-dwellers.  Zola 
considers  that  perfectly  natural,  Doctor  Pascal  also,  and, 
because  Clotilda  has  gone  over  completely  to  his  camp, 
neither  does  she  protest.  This  seems  a  little  more  won- 
derful. Clotilda  was  religious  so  recently !  Youth  and 
inexperience  do  not  explain  it  either. 

Even  girls  at  the  age  of  eight  have  some  instinctive 
feeling  of  modesty.  A  young  lady  of  twenty  years  and 
something  knows  always  what  she  is  doing,  and  can- 
not become  a  victim ;  if  she  is  at  variance  with  the 


ZOLA.  589 

feeling  of  modesty,  it  is  either  through  temperament  or 
through  love,  which  ennobles  the  transport,  for  it  makes 
it  an  act  of  attachment  and  a  duty,  but  also  love  it- 
self wishes  to  be  duty  legalized.  Though  a  woman 
be  without  religion,  and  renounce  the  consecration  of 
love  by  religion,  she  may  still  wish  her  feeling  to  be 
legalized  before  people.  The  priest  or  the  mayor.  Clotilda, 
who  loves  Doctor  Pascal,  desires  nothing.  Marriage 
by  a  mayor  seems  of  secondary  value  to  her.  And 
again,  it  is  simply  impossible  to  understand  her,  for 
genuine  love  should  strive  to  strengthen  the  bond  and 
make  it  permanent.  Otherwise  that  happens  which  hap- 
pened in  this  novel,  that  the  first  separation  was  the  end 
of  the  connection.  Had  they  been  married  even  before 
a  mayor,  they  would  have  remained  man  and  wife, 
in  separation  they  would  not  have  ceased  to  belong 
to  each  other ;  since  they  had  not  been  married,  he  was 
from  the  moment  of  her  departure  the  unmarried  Doctor 
Pascal,  as  before,  she  —  the  seduced  Clotilda.  Even 
during  the  time  of  their  common  life  a  thousand  bitter- 
nesses rose  from  this,  and  moments  really  harrowing  for 
both.  A  certain  time  Clotilda  rushes  in  in  tears,  and 
flaming,  and  when  the  terrified  Doctor  asks  what  the 
matter  is,  she  answers, — 

"  Oh,  those  women !  While  walking  in  the  shade  I  closed 
my  parasol  and  had  the  misfortune  to  hit  some  little  child. 
Then  all  fell  on  me,  and  began  to  scream  out  such  things  ! 
Oh,  such  things  !  That  I  never  shall  have  children  ;  that 
it  is  not  for  such  a  dishcloth  as  I  am  to  have  them  —  and 
other  words,  which  I  cannot  repeat,  and  will  not,  which  I 
did  not  even  understand." 

Her  breast  rose  in  sobbing ;  he  grew  pale,  and,  seizing 
her  in  his  arms,  covered  her  face  with  kisses  j  then  he 
said, — 


590  ZOLA. 

"This  is  my  fault ;  thou  art  suffering  through  me  !  Lis- 
uen,  let  us  go  to  some  place  far  off,  where  nobody  will 
know  thee,  where  every  one  will  greet  thee,  and  where 
thou  wilt  be  happy." 

But  one  thing  does  not  come  to  the  head  of  either :  to 
marry.  When  Pascal's  mother  speaks  to  them  of  it,  they 
have  stone  ears.  Womanly  modesty  does  not  commend 
this  method  to  Clotilda ;  care  for  her,  and  a  desire  to 
shield  her  from  disrespect,  does  not  commend  it  to  him. 
Why  ?  For  a  reason  unjustified  by  anything.  For  the 
reason  that  it  so  pleases  Zola. 

But  perhaps  his  object  is  to  show  what  tragic  results 
come  of  illegal  connections  ?  Not  in  the  least.  He  is 
entirely  on  the  side  of  the  Doctor  and  Clotilda.  If  the 
mayor  should  marry  them,  there  would  be  no  drama,  and 
the  author  wants  one.  That  is  the  reason. 

Later  comes  the  Doctor's  bankruptcy.  They  have  to 
separate.  This  separation  becomes  the  misfortune  of 
their  lives ;  the  Doctor  must  die  of  the  blow.  Both  feel 
that  that  must  be  the  end  ;  both  do  not  wish  it ;  still  they 
do  not  imagine  any  method  which  would  fix  forever  their 
mutual  relations  and  change  the  separation  only  into  a 
journey,  not  into  a  final  parting  :  still  they  do  not  marry. 

They  were  people  without  religion,  so  they  did  not  want 
a  priest ;  that  we  can  understand.  But  why  did  they  not 
want  a  mayor  ?  This  question  is  left  without  an  answer. 

Here,  besides  the  want  of  moral  feeling,  is  the  lack  of 
common  sense.  The  book  is  not  only  immoral ;  it  is  a 
wretched  hut  built  of  planks  which  do  not  hold  together, 
not  suffering  the  least  touch  of  logic  and  sound  judgment. 
In  this  quagmire  of  nonsense  even  talent  is  submerged. 

One  thing  remains :  poison  flows  as  formerly  into  the 
souls  of  readers,  minds  become  accustomed  to  evil  and 
cease  to  be  indignant  at  it.  The  poison  soaks  in,  destroys 


ZOLA.  591 

simplicity  of  soul,  moral  sensitiveness,  and  that  delicacy 
of  conscience  which  distinguishes  good  from  evil. 

The  Doctor,  in  grief  for  Clotilda,  gets  the  sclerosis  and 
dies.  She  returns  under  the  former  roof  and  occupies 
herself  with  the  rearing  of  the  child.  '  Nothing  of  what 
the  Doctor  had  ingrafted  into  her  soul  went  to  nothing  or 
withered.  On  the  contrary,  it  grew  stronger.  He  loved 
life ;  she  also  loves  it  now.  She  accepts  it  completely ; 
not  through  resignation,  but  because  she  knows  it ;  and 
the  more  she  ponders  over  it,  fondling  the  nameless  child 
on  her  knee,  the  more  she  knows  it.  With  this  ends  the 
cycle  "  Eougon-Macquart." 

But  this  end  is  a  new  surprise.  Now  nineteen  volumes 
lie  before  us,  and  in  them,  as  Zola  himself  says :  Tant  de 
boue,  tant  de  larmes.  C'etait  h  se  demander  si  d'un  coup 
de  foudre,  il  riaurait  pas  mieux  valu.  lalayer  cette  four- 
milibre  gatee  et  miserable.  It  is  true !  The  man  who 
reads  these  volumes  can  arrive  at  no  other  conclusion 
than  that  life  is  a  desperate  and  blind  mechanical  process 
in  which  one  must  share,  to  the  greater  misfortune  of  peo- 
ple, since  it  is  impossible  to  do  otherwise.  In  it  mud 
predominates  over  green  turf,  rottenness  over  freshness ; 
the  odor  of  corpses  over  the  perfume  of  flowers ;  sickness, 
madness,  and  crime  over  health  and  virtue.  This  Gehenna 
is  not  merely  terrible,  it  is  disgusting.  The  hair  rises  on 
the  head,  and  at  the  same  time  saliva  comes  to  the  lips 
(to  spit  at  it),  and  in  fact  the  question  springs  up  whether 
it  would  not  be  better  if  a  lightning  flash  should  sweep 
away  cette  fourmiliere  yatee  et  miserable  ? 

Another  conclusion  there  cannot  be ;  another  would  be 
a  mad  mental  deviation,  a  simple  breaking  of  the  laws  of 
reason  and  logic.  And  now  do  you  know  how  this  cycle 
of  novels  ends  really  ?  With  a  hymn  in  praise  of  life. 


592  ZOLA. 

Here  one's  hands  simply  drop.  It  is  useless  labor  to 
show  again  that  the  author  arrives  at  something  which 
is  directly  opposed  to  that  which  should  flow  from  his 
work.  We  wish  him  no  evil !  But  let  him  not  be 
astonished  if  even  his  disciples  desert  him.  People  must 
think  according  to  the  laws  of  logic.  And  because  they 
must  also  live,  they  want  some  consolation  on  the  road 
of  life.  Masters,  after  the  manner  of  Zola,  give  them  only 
dissolution,  chaos,  a  disgust  for  life,  and  despair.  The 
rationalism  of  these  masters  can  show  the  world  nothing 
else ;  and  these  things  it  has  always  shown  so  eagerly  that 
it  has  exceeded  the  measure.  To-day  those  who  are  stifled 
with  bad  air  need  fresh  air ;  the  doubting  need  hope ; 
those  who  are  torn  with  unrest  need  a  little  repose, 
therefore  they  act  properly  when  they  turn  thither 
whence  hope  and  repose  come,  thither  where  they  are 
blessed  with  the  cross,  and  where  it  is  said  to  them,  as 
it  was  to  the  palsied  :  Tolle  grabatum  tuum  et  ambula  ! 
(Take  up  thy  bed  and  walk  !) 

And  thus  is  explained  the  newest  evolution,  the  waves 
of  which  are  beginning  to  pass  through  the  world  in 
every  direction. 

To  my  thinking,  poetry  and  novels  must  also  pass 
through  this  evolution  ;  nay  more,  they  must  strengthen 
and  freshen  it.  To  go  on  as  hitherto  is  simply  impossible ! 
On  an  exhausted  field  only  weeds  grow.  The  novel 
should  strengthen  life,  not  undermine  it;  ennoble,  not 
defile  it ;  bring  good  "  tidings,"  not  evil.  I  care  not 
whether  the  word  that  I  say  pleases  or  not,  since  I 
believe  that  I  reflect  the  great  and  urgent  need  of  the 
soul  of  humanity,  which  is  crying  for  a  change. 


By  the  Author  of  "QUO  VAD1S" 


THE  NOVELS  OF  HENRYR  SIENKIEWICZ 

AUTHORIZED  AND   UNABRIDGED  TRANS- 
LATIONS   FROM    THE   ORIGINAL    POLISH 

By  JEREMIAH  CURTIN 

Commended  in  the  highest  terms  by  Critics  and  Writers 


"  Quo  Vadis,"  1  vol.     .    .    .$2.00 
With  Fire  and  Sword,  1  vol.    2.00 

The  Deluge,  2  vols 3.00 

Pan  Michael,  1  vol 2.00 

Children  of  the  Soil,  1  vol.  .    2.00 


Hania,  1  vol $2.00 

Sielanka,  a  Forest  Picture, 

and  Other  Stories,  1  vol.  .  2.00 
Without  Dogma  (Translated 

by  IZA  YOUNG),  1  vol.   .    .    .    1.50 


Library  Edition,  9  vols.,  crown  8vo,  cloth,  in  box,  $16.50. 
Half  calf,  extra,  gilt  top,  or  half  morocco,  extra,  gilt  top,  $32.25. 


In  consequence  of  the  publication  of  unauthorized  translations  of  some 
of  the  above,  we  deem  it  desirable  to  notify  the  public  that  we  are,  by 
special  arrangement  with  Sienkiewicz,  the  authorized  publishers  of  all  his 
writings.  Any  other  publication  is  made  directly  against  his  wishes,  as 
expressed  in  the  letters  which  follow. 

No  publishing  house  except  our  own  is  authorized  to  issue  a  single  book 
by  Sienkiewicz;  and  any  announcements  not  made  by  us  concerning  his 
books  should  be  received  with  distrust,  especially  statements  concerning 
new  stories  by  him,  all  of  his  latest  works  being  already  issued  by  us  in 
authorized  and  unabridged  translations  by  Mr.  Curtin. 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "QUO  VADIS." 

MESSRS.  LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  Co. : 

GENTLEMEN,  —  Having  concluded  with  you  an  agreement  concerning  my  novels,  trans- 
lated by  Mr.  Jeremiah  Curtin  and  published  by  your  house,  /  have  the  honor  to  declare  that 
the  publication  of  these  novels  by  other  publishers  would  be  done  against  my  will  an</ 
interest.  As  far  as  I  know,  I  -cannot  put  a  legal  stop  to  their  publication  by  others,  but  I 
think  that  public  opinion  in  your  country  might  in  this  case  take  the  place  of  law,  since  the 
feeling  of  commercial  honor  is  so  highly  developed  in  the  United  States. 

Yours  truly, 

HKNRYK   SIENKIEWICZ. 
MESSRS.  LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  Co.: 

GENTLEMEN,  —  According  to  your  request  I  enclose  the  latest  photograph  of  me,  made 
in  Nice.  Concerning  my  novels,  /  again  declare  that  every  edition,  as  tvell  that  of  "  Quo 
Vadis"1  as  the  previous  works,  published  by  other  firms  is  an  abuse,  contrary  to  my  oirn 
will,  as  to  my  profit,  and  /  appeal  once  more  to  the  honest  public  opinion.  The  royalty  due 
to  me,  which  you  mention  in  your  last  letter,  forward,  please,  to  Warsaw. 

Yours  truly, 

HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ. 


Vadis' 

Of  intense  interest  to  the  whole  Christian  civilization.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

m 

"Quo  VADIS."  A  Narrative  of  the  Time  of  Nero.  By  HENRYK 
SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from  the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN. 
Library  Edition.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

The  picture  of  the  giant  Ursus  struggling  with  the  wild  animal  is  one  that  will  always 
hold  place  with  such  literary  triumphs  as  that  of  the  chariot  race  in  "  Ben  Hur."  —  Boston 
Courier, 

Mr.  Curtin's  English  is  so  limpid  and  fluent  that  one  finds  it  difficult  to  realize  that  ht 
is  reading  a  translation.  —  Philadelphia  Church  Standard. 

"  Quo  VADIS."  ILLUSTRATED  HOLIDAY  EDITION.  With  maps  and  plans 
of  Ancient  Rome,  and  twenty-seven  photogravure  plates  from 
pictures  by  Howard  Pyle,  Edmund  H.  Garrett,  E.  Van  Muyden, 
and  other  artists.  2  vols.  8vo.  Cloth,  extra,  gilt  top,  in  box,  $6.00. 
Half  crushed  Levant  morocco,  extra,  gilt  top,  $12.00. 

Hania 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  massive  art  and  the  wild,  fierce  strength  of  the  hand  that 
wrote  "Quo  Vadis"  and  "  With  Fire  and  Sword."  There  is  a  Titanic  ruggedness  both 
in  the  characters  and  the  incidents  that  is  at  once  barbaric  and  fascinating.  —  Chicago 
Tribune. 

HANIA.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from  the  Polish  by 
JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  With  photogravure  frontispiece  of  the  author 
and  his  daughter.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

In  addition  to  "  Hania,"  a  romance  of  strength  and  tenderness,  and  powerful 
characterization,  the  new  volume  includes  one  of  the  author's  latest  stories,  M  On 
the  Bright  Shore,"  a  romance  of  Monte  Carlo;  a  philosophical  religious  story  of 
the  crucifixion,  entitled  "  Let  us  Follow  Him,"  which  suggested  to  Sienkiewicz  the 
;dea  of  writing  "  Quo  Vadis  ;  "  a  sketch  entitled  "  Tartar  Captivity,"  the  germ  of 
"  With  Fire  and  Sword ;  "  a  humorous  novelette,  entitled  "  That  Third  Woman,"  etc. 

With  Fire  and  Sword 

The  only  modern  romance  with  -which  it  can  be  compared  for  fire,  sprightliness,  rapidity 
of  action,  swift  changes,  and  absorbing  interest  is  "  The  Three  Musketeers"  of  Dumas. — 
New  York  Tribune. 

WITH  FIRE  AND  SWORD.  An  Historical  Novel  of  Poland  and  Russia. 
By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from  the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH 
CURTIN.  With  portrait  of  the  author,  plates,  and  a  map.  Crown 
8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

"  With  Fire  and  Sword  "  is  the  first  of  a  trilogy  of  historical  romances  of 
Poland,  Russia,  and  Sweden.  Their  publication  has  been  received  throughout  the 
United  States  by  readers  and  critics  as  an  event  in  literature.  Action  in  the  field 
has  never  before  been  described  in  any  language  so  briefly,  so  vividly,  and  with 
such  a  marvellous  expression  of  energy. 


The  Deluge 


It  even  surpasses  in  interest  and  power  tlie  same  author's  romance  "  With  Fire  and 
Sword."  .  .  .  The  -whole  story  swarms  with  brilliant  pictures  of  war,  and  with  personal 
episodes  of  battle  and  adventure.  —  New  York  Tribune. 

THE  DELUGE.  An  Historical  Novel  of  Poland,  Sweden,  and  Russia. 
By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from  the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH 
CURTIN.  A  sequel  to  "  With  Fire  and  Sword."  With  map.  2  vols. 
Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $3.00. 

Marvellous  in  its  grand  descriptions.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

One  of  the  direct  anointed  line  of  the  kings  of  story-telling.  —  Literary  World. 

Pan  Michael 

No  word  less  than  "  Excelsior  "  will  justly  describe  the  achievement  of  the  trilogy  of 
novels  of  which  "  Pan  Michael "  is  the  last,  —  Baltimore  American. 

PAN  MICHAEL.  An  Historical  Novel  of  Poland,  Russia,  and  the 
Ukraine.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from  the  Polish 
by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  A  sequel  to  "  With  Fire  and  Sword  "  and 
"The  Deluge."  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

This  work  completes  the  great  Polish  trilogy.  The  period  of  the  story  is 
1668-1674,  and  the  principal  historical  event  is  the  Turkish  invasion  of  1672.  Pan 
Michael,  a  favorite  character  in  the  preceding  stories,  and  the  incomparable  Zag- 
loba  figure  throughout  the  novel.  The  most  important  historical  character  intro- 
duced is  Sobieski,  who  was  elected  king  in  1674. 

There  is  no  falling  off  in  interest  in  this  third  and  last  book  of  the  series  ;  again  Sien- 
kiewicz  looms  as  one  of  the  great  novel  writers  of  the  world.  —  The  Nation. 

From  the  artistic  standpoint,  to  have  created  the  character  of  Zagloba  was  a  feat  com- 
parable with  Shakespeare's  creation  of  Falstaff  and  Goethe's  creation  of  Mephistopheles.  — 
The  Dial. 

Children  of  the  Soil 

A  great  novel,  such  as  enriches  the  reader'1  s  experience  and  extends  his  mental  hori~ 
tons.  One  can  compare  it  only  with  the  great  fictions  of  our  great  day,  and  in  that  com-- 
parisonfind  it  inferior  to  very  few  of  the  greatest .  —  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  in  "  Harper's  Weekly." 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  SOIL.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from 
the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

A  novel  of  contemporary  life  in  Poland,  and  a  work  of  profound  interest, 
written  with  that  vividness  and  truthful  precision  which  have  made  the  author 
famous. 

Without  Dogma 

Intellectually  the  novel  is  a  masterpiece.  —  Christian  Union. 

WITHOUT  DOGMA.     A  Novel  of  Modern  Poland.     By  HENRYK  SIENKIE- 
cz.     Translated   from   the  Polish  by  IZA   YOUNG.     Crown  8vo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  psychological  novel  of  modern  thought  and  of  great  power;  its  utter  con- 
trast to  the  historical  romances  strikingly  exhibiting  the  remarkable  variety  of  his 
genius. 

A  triumph  of  psychology.  —  Chicago  Times. 


Sielatika,  a  Forest  Picture,  and  Other  Stones 

His  energy  and  imagination  are  gigantesquc.  —  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

SIELANKA,  A  FOREST  PICTURE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  By  HENRYK 
SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from  the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN. 
Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00. 

This  new  volume  by  the  most  popular  writer  of  the  time  includes  the  shorter 
stories  which  have  not  before  been  published  in  the  uniform  Library  Edition,  ren- 
dering it  the  only  complete  edition  of  his  works  in  English.  It  comprises  six  hun- 
dred pages,  and  contains  the  following  stories,  dramas,  etc. :  Sielanka,  a  Forest 
Picture;  For  Bread;  Orso  ;  Whose  Fault,  a  Dramatic  Picture  in  One  Act;  On  a 
Single  Card,  a  Play  in  Five  Acts;  The  Decision  of  Zeus;  Yanko  the  Musician; 
Bartek  the  Victor ;  Across  the  Plains ;  The  Diary  of  a  Tutor  in  Poznan ;  The 
Lighthouse  Keeper  of  Aspinwall ;  Yamyol  (Angel);  The. Bull  Fight;  A  Comedy 
of  Errors ;  A  Journey  to  Athens ;  Zola 

Shorter  Stories,  ^Published  Separately, 

YANKO  THE  MUSICIAN,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ. 
Translated  from  the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  Illustrated  by 
EDMUND  H.  GARRETT.  i6mo.  Cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

The  simple  story  of  the  lighthouse  man  is  a  masterpiece.  — New  York  Times. 
The  tale  of  Yanko  has  wonderful  pathos.  —  Chicago  Herald. 

LILLIAN  MORRIS,  AND  OTHER  STORIES.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Trans- 
lated from  the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  Illustrated  by  EDMUND 
H.  GARRETT.  i6mo.  Cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

The  tales  and  sketches  in  "  Lillian  Morris,  and  Other  Stories,"  and  "  Yanko 
the  Musician,"  have  been  collected  with  others  in  the  new  volume  entitled  "  Sie- 
lanka, a  Forest  Picture,  and  Other  Stories." 

ON  THE  BRIGHT  SHORE.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from 
the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  i6mo.  Cloth,  50  cents. 

LET  Us  FOLLOW  HIM.  By  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ.  Translated  from 
the  Polish  by  JEREMIAH  CURTIN.  With  photogravure  frontispiece 
by  EDMUND  H.  GARRETT.  i6mo.  Cloth,  gilt,  50  cents. 

The  period  of  this  remarkable  story  is  that  of  the  crucifixion,  and  it  gave  to 
the  author  the  idea  of  writing  "  Quo  Vadis." 

"Let  Us  Follow  Him"  and  "On  the  1'right  Shore  "  are  also  published  with 
other  stories  in  the  volume  entitled  "  Hania." 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-25m-7,'61(C1437s4)4280 


1898 


A    001  133546    o